


Lily Blight Limbo

by bipalium



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, F/F, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Polyamory, Psychological Drama, Questionable sexual intercourse, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 02:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8692261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipalium/pseuds/bipalium
Summary: Munakata Kyosuke has always had a dream, and now that he's standing in spotlight of the stage, he aims higher.To Juzo, being a supportive friend is an essential principle, and no matter what it takes, he will always be there to back Munakata up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all the characters are 21 years old or older  
> 

One, two, three, one.

The stage is set ablaze with a brain-reverberating flash of fluorescent light. Drums go: _one, two, one, two,_ electric guitar chokes with a low wheeze of hunger. _One, two, one, two_ – here he goes.

The bass shiver churns throughout his body, trembling on the tip of his fingers. _One, two, one, two_ – here comes the voice.

_Through the endless space_

_I see your face_

_Glaring, smearing wrath_

_You could only dot_

_Your bewildered hope_

_Upon my heart and rip it off_

_Dedication is not a sin_

_Catch me on my way – you cannot_

_Spin, you cannot move_

_The sacredness decays_

_But you will never stop me,_

_Never stop me again_

The voice reaches his ears through the hyperbolical wavelength of the mic. He sees the well-familiar back: strung, tense, but imminently resolute. The countdown goes off on his mind: _one, two, three_ – and now goes the gruesome, low chorus.

_Will I see the future_

_Will I encounter your faith in me_

_Blindness is not a virtue_

_Unless you throw yourself_

_Into the desperate ocean,_

_Throw your emotion away_

_And slay_

_And slay_

_The mortified calamity_

_Out of the way_

Extreme, deafening roar of the audience mingles in the mash of his bass and drums and Kyosuke’s growling voice. The screaming part is severely intense, and for a brief moment he wonders if Kyosuke will be spitting his lungs out the next day like he did after the previous performance.

_A friend or foe_

_Cannot endorse_

_My craving for the liberty_

_The cosmos swings_

_Beneath my ribs_

_Just override the consequences_

He doesn’t need to control his numb fingers, they’re moving in a pattern he’s long since memorized. From under the drooped eyelids he watches Kyosuke’s stern shoulders – here comes another deep growl. He wishes he could watch from the front, to see his writhed face with its profoundly emotive absorption into the song. Kyosuke never has this utter devotion during a rehearsal, but the magic of his charisma is so tremendous that it nurtures stabbing pain in one’s chest even if said one is looking at the performance from behind.

The live stage is the only place where Juzo feels their hearts connect. And the only place where they _can_ connect.

With the final chord the spectators squall, hands up in the air, chanting: _FU-TU-RE-MORE! FU-TU-RE-MORE!_ Out of the corner of his eye Juzo glimpses Chisa grinning and bowing to the fans, throwing her hands in the air, catching bouquets; Great Gozu raises his arms to the dramatic shouts of his name. 

As they descend, security encircles them and the noise thickens.

“KYOSUKE! KYOSUKE I LOVE YOU!”

“CHISA GIVE ME AN AUTOGRAPH!”

“NO GIVE IT TO ME! SIGN MY TITS!”

“GREAT GOZU I WANT YOUR CHILDREN!”

“JUZO YOU’RE THE BEST!”

“JU-ZO-BOYS! JU-ZO-BOYS!”

He walks past the raving swarm of the fans. Even though the noise is highly prominent in his ears, his eyes are fixed on Munakata’s back.   

On their way to the backstage, Great Gozu pats his back and shows him a thumb up.

“Not gonna stay tonight?” asks Juzo, furrowing.

“Nah, maybe some other time,” says Gozu cheerfully, his voice muffled by his mask.

After a brief hug with Chisa and a hand shake with Munakata, Gozu waves goodbye and retires. And Juzo knows that ‘some other time’ is unlikely: Gozu always stays away from parties, excusing himself with his little daughter’s waiting for him. 

The noise slowly fades as they enter the narrow corridor leading to the backstage. Quickening his pace to catch up with Munakata, Juzo is briskly outrun by Chisa, who clings to Munakata’s arm and leans to him.

“You did great, Kyosuke!” she chuckles delightedly. “I wish I could sit back and watch! You sounded so cool, my little Kyosuke!”

“Thanks, Yukizome.”

With a broad step, Juzo draws level with them and casts a look at Munakata: his eyes are bloodshot, chest still heaving.

“Are you alright, Munakata? You look so pale.”

“I’m good,” he replies with a contradictory morbid twist of his features. “I need to practice that second growl more. It sounds pretty weak so far.”

“I think it’s good enough,” says Juzo, frowning.

“Oh, my poor Kyosuke, but if you keep working so hard you’ll strain your voice!” pouts Chisa. “I’m worried about you. Sakakura is right, you look very tired.”

“There’s nothing a shot of whiskey cannot fix, though,” chuckles Munakata as they reach the backstage. Chisa lets go of his arm and he plops down on a sofa, outstretching his legs.

Juzo removes his leather jacket and choker, standing in front of the wardrobe in his ragged tank top and skinny jeans. Swiftly, Chisa bumps into him, holding her long luscious hair up. With a small sigh, Juzo unzips her skin-tight dress, and she shamelessly peels it off, not bothered of her partial nakedness.

“So are we going to the bar?” asks Munakata, a cigarette already hanging from his lips.

“Oh darling, are you sure you want to drink?” Chisa bends over to pick her jeans from the floor and, having snatched them, whisks back to the sofa and on Munakata’s lap. As he kisses her lips, cigarette in one hand and her thigh in the other, her round full breasts press to his collarbones. Juzo turns away, sloppily putting on his jean jacket.

“Just a little bit.” Munakata grins against her lips, and she grins back.

Juzo taps a cigarette out of his pack on his way to the backstage exit.

“If you’re gonna take your time, I’ll wait outside,” he says. “I’ll get a taxi.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you, Sakakura!” beams Chisa at him. “I promise it won’t take long.”

In his peripheral vision, Chisa and Munakata lie down on the sofa, hands and mouths on each other’s. He strolls outside with a smoldering cigarette grit between his clenched teeth.

Icy rain drizzles, making him shiver under the thin jacket as he dials the taxi number. The fall is not in full swing yet, but the tiniest gust of air becomes a piercing steel blade against his skin.

Fierce giggling shoots in his ears, followed by a cluster of fascinated sighs.

“Oh my god, look, it’s Juzo!”

“Gosh, how lucky we are!”

A group of fans run to him while he stands by the road with his hands in his pockets.

“God is real! It’s Juzo, in the flesh!”

“I’m going to faint, guys...”

“Can we take a pic with you?”

Before Juzo has a chance to open his mouth in protest, the girls take out their phones and blind him with flashes. He smiles laboriously as they pose next to him.

“Are you waiting for your girlfriend?”

“Is it true that you have one, like they wrote in the All Star magazine?”

“Kimura Seiko, wasn’t it? Gee, she’s so lucky!”

“Do you love her?”

“I wish I were her!”

 “Maybe if you get tired of her, you could–”

A car stops abruptly before him, and with well-trained lightning speed Munakata and Chisa sneak out of the venue. Before Juzo can catch a renewed wave of amazed shrieks, he feels a rough clasp on his wrist and gets pushed into the car.

“To The Marginal bar, please,” says Munakata coolly to the driver.

A crippling strain of embarrassment crawls up Juzo’s spine. He stares through the window at flashing street lights, high-pitched voices replaying in his head: _Your girlfriend, Kimura Seiko? She’s so lucky!_ Not that he cares much about his own image, but the thought of Kimura being dished on so disgracefully sickens him.

“Are you alright, Sakakura?”

Munakata’s voice is soft and low, and suddenly Juzo is struck by a realization that the hand is still clasping his wrist. Hyper-aware of the touch, Juzo looks everywhere but at him and meets Chisa’s concerned eyes.

“I am.”

“Fans like those are so annoying.” Chisa clicks her tongue and reaches out to pat his shoulder. “But don’t worry! Let’s relax and have fun, shall we?”

And true to Chisa’s definition of fun, upon their arrival to the bar they stumble into an all-nighter of mixing heavy alcohol like there’s no tomorrow. Not really immersed into conversation, Juzo dwells on the fans’ claims that gradually flow into their performance and Munakata’s deep voice, his graceful posture, his warm hand on Juzo’s wrist in the taxi.

“Sakakura,” Munakata leans close to his face, flushed and reeking whiskey. The smell entangles with his rich cologne, his mint shampoo, his skin scent that never fails to make Juzo’s chest tighten.

“Huh?”

“You screwed a chord in _Throw your emotion away_ ,” chuckles Munakata.

As if a string snaps in his ribcage, Juzo feels cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“Sorry. I guess I wasn’t in the right mood for the song. It’s very belligerent, and I felt, well...” Out of words, he gestures helplessly. What can make the day worse if not Munakata’s disappointment?

Laughing quietly, Munakata leans on his shoulder and wraps an arm around him.

“I was just checking you! You did good actually, sorry for this little lie.”

“You did good, too. No, you did great.”

With a sly, pleased smile, Munakata raises his glass and turns to Chisa.

“To success?”

“To success!” she echoes with a wide grin.

Munakata turns his head back to Juzo, and a strand of his soft hair brushes against Juzo’s cheek.

“To success,” says Juzo with a composed smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter, _Throw Away _, is written by me, starting out from the tune of _Let It Die _by _Starset _. I hope you enjoyed, and don't hesitate to leave comments if you have something on your mind, or something you want to ask/share with me! :) Enjoy your stay.______


	2. Chapter 2

At the leaden dawn, staggering on his feet, Juzo crawls into the freezing apartment. He does not shake from cold; his senses went numb after the sixth Sex On The Beach. Faintly he recollects Chisa dancing on top of the bar desk, Munakata accidentally giving a burn to his neck with a cigarette as they sloppily tried to slow dance together. Munakata’s hand was somewhere on the small of his back for a brief moment before Chisa snatched him away and tried to make him climb on the bar desk with her. Munakata didn’t manage to, and was loudly sick in the bathroom some minutes after, while Juzo, barely standing on his own feet, held his tie for him.

Head splitting open with ache, Juzo is on the way straight to his bedroom, zigzagging across the living room. He does not instantly catch a disgruntled stare.

“Oh, morning, Kimura.”

Look full of reproach, she leans to the door frame with her arms folded across her chest, already dressed and with her ever-present mask on.

“Sakakura, you shouldn’t drink this much and this often. It’s 6 am, and you’re already stewed to the gills.”

“I just haven't sobered after yesterday,” he retorts hoarsely as his stomach wrings in pain.

Kimura sighs and approaches him, laying her hands softly onto his slouching shoulders.

“If only I knew what a problematic roommate I was going to get.” Even though her mouth is hidden under the mask, he can hear her smiling. “Come on, undress and take a shower. I’ll get you some meds.”

“I need no meds, I just want to sleep,” he yawns to affirm his statement.

Kimura shakes her head.

“You’ll regret if you don’t take them, believe me.”

Obediently but reluctantly, he goes to the shower, spending five eternal minutes of blackened existence in there. When he gets out, Kimura is in her coat, waiting by the front door with a glass of water and a pill in her hands.

“Swallow,” she orders. “Show me your tongue. Good. Now go to sleep, I’ll be back at 7 pm today.”

“Late shift again?”

“There’s a huge procurement process today. If you wake up before I’m back, there’s milk in the fridge. Also some fruit and leftovers.”

“Alright. I don’t think I will.”

“Right. This pill has a somnolent effect too, so you'd better reach your bed before you collapse in the middle of the living room.”

And in point of fact, Juzo feels extreme but comfortable fatigue enveloping his body. Waving off Kimura, he drags himself to his room and falls on the unmade bed.

It might’ve been nice to have a girlfriend like Kimura, but he is content enough to have her as his roommate. A godsend pharmacist she is, she has saved him from enough fits of headache.

His sleep is shallow, interrupted by stomach twists and abrupt body shocks. Grunting, Juzo shifts from his stomach to his back, stretching his sore arms. His eye catches a framed photo on the night stand and he drifts off, serene in reverie.

 

**~***~**

 

“Sakakura! If you keep beating up people, nobody’s gonna like you.”

Sullenly, he glared at the direction of the voice: arrogant as ever, the class president was standing behind his back. Sneering, Juzo approached him until their noses almost touched.

“I don’t need anyone to like me,” he hissed, holding Munakata’s cocksure gaze. “Get lost.”

Turning on his heels, Juzo suddenly felt a strong grip on his shoulder. Swiftly, he wrung out of it and sent his fist to the president’s face, which got as abruptly blocked by Munakata’s bare hand.

“I don’t know about you yet, but I like your attitude,” Munakata grinned. Trying to shove his fist away from the hold, Juzo found it iron. Who could have thought he’d get this from the likes of a petty class president?

“What the hell do you want from me?”

Munakata peered at him with resolution, his previous shit-eating grin gone.

“I have a dream, Sakakura. And a feeling that among all people you are the only one who can help me.”

Little did Juzo know that Munakata had done some research and discovered his interest in music: belonging to the boxing section, Juzo had been spending more and more of his spare time with his new bass. Back then, in middle school, on that fateful day when Munakata approached him so nonchalantly, Juzo couldn’t have imagined where they would get.

It’s been ten years, they’ve come through a lot of hardships, but their friendship has been the light that keeps them going. In high school they were lucky enough to get in the same class, and so was the new girl who, Munakata’s sources said, played electric guitar like a rock god.

“Yukizome-kun?” Munakata leaned to the desk, rubbing his chin as their former drummer Daisaku Bandai threw clueless glances between him and Juzo.

“She seems like the type who’s good at cooking or housekeeping,” shrugged Juzo, chewing on his teriyaki bento. Munakata sat down at his desk, opening the bento Juzo had prepared for him: rice and omelet with lettuce and cherry tomatoes.

“Talents aren’t necessarily limited to one thing,” commented Munakata, tasting the rice. “Or are you saying that your playing bass guitar somehow decreases the quality of your cooking?”

Munakata had been playing electric guitar himself, although his real wish was to be a lead singer.

To Juzo’s liking, Munakata’s playing was by no means mediocre, but his real talent lay, indeed, in singing. When he sang at school concerts or at bars they occasionally performed in, Munakata changed from his usual, confident and stoic self to a mess of raw emotion. How many times Juzo watched his slouched back and listened to the voice that tore him apart with its profound strain; it overwhelmed him and stirred his senses. On the stage, Munakata was the messiah and the leader, the one who could make the whole world change with his lyrics and vocals. And so, Juzo’s world started to change, revolving more and more around Munakata.

When Chisa joined them, having agreed quite light-heartedly, Juzo was glad. A talented guitarist in the band meant that Munakata could focus entirely on vocals, not to mention how Chisa’s flow of sound altered the overall mood of their songs. Juzo could see how happy Munakata was about his lucky find, how he cherished Chisa’s will and her every word, how he always smiled at her, how Chisa playfully responded to him.

One winter weekend, excited for a rehearsal of their new song, Juzo was in a hurry to their temporary venue – Munakata’s garage. He was practically running to the household, his guitar bumping against his back in the case, face flushing from the pleasant tingling of frost.

He stopped abruptly some fifteen meters away from the entrance, eyes fixed on Munakata and Chisa, who were leaning to the garage door, embracing each other and locked in a fervent kiss. 

What he felt was not rage, not disappointment. He strolled a few blocks back to catch his breath and sort out his thoughts. Oddly enough, his face still burned, but not because of frost. His chest was heavy and tight as if filled with wacky liquid.

What he felt was frustration and, he couldn’t deny it, jealousy. Always having Munakata by his side and supporting him had become a habit of his, and only then did he realize it wasn’t particularly a healthy one. Haunted by the notion that his friend was no longer exclusively his, that they wouldn’t be able to spend all their free time together like they used to, that he was no longer irreplaceable, Juzo strolled down the street for almost an hour until it hit him: the new knowledge made him weak. A bond as strong as theirs could not be crushed easily, and yet he found himself dreading a discord he thought inevitable.

But his doubts paled into insignificance with how much effort they were putting into the band; sleepless nights filled with creating lyrics, hours of rehearsals after classes, midnight calls about new ideas – that didn’t go anywhere. Even more so, Chisa had been doing her best in helping them, as if Munakata’s dream had become her own, too. Seeing her excitement and devotion, Juzo couldn’t help but accept her as an equal.

It took him some months to get accustomed to Chisa’s perpetual presence, not to mention that Munakata dragged him to all his dates with her, which at first surprised Juzo. Didn’t they want to be on their own for once? He asked Munakata about that as they sat in a coffee shop one especially cold afternoon, when Chisa retired to the bathroom. Dazed, he saw Munakata laughing in reply, and awkwardly smiled back.

“When we want to be alone, we come over to each other’s places,” Munakata explained matter-of-factly. “Why are you asking, Sakakura?”

“Well,” Juzo scratched his head, not a little embarrassed. “I thought I’m a hindrance to your dates and you’ve been taking me along out of politeness.”

To that, Munakata’s brow rose obnoxiously.

“You’re offending me,” he said rather curtly.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Sighing, Munakata clasped his hands together and leaned within earshot distance.

“What politeness are you talking about? You’ve been my best friend for years. If not for you I would have never stepped on stage.”

A warm, tingly liquid spread through Juzo’s body, making him melt into his seat. His face heated up and he couldn’t help a content grin.

“Thank you, Munakata.”

“Tsk,” Munakata rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “You never change, do you? Thanking me for simply saying the truth, that’s so you. By the way, Yukizome admires you a lot. She says you’re cool, perhaps even cooler than me, in a way.”

“Oh, crap,” Juzo waved his hand. “That’s not true. And she could’ve said so to my face. Why would she–”

“But I do think so!” chimed Chisa’s voice right above Juzo, startling him. With a broad grin, she plopped to his side of the couch and threw her arms around his neck. Shrugging, Juzo cast a questioning look at Munakata, who only chuckled in reply and innocently shook his head.

Sure thing, Juzo couldn’t imagine a better girlfriend for Munakata no matter how he looked at it. Chisa was supportive and responsive, she always felt Munakata’s mood swings so she knew when to cheer him up and when not to disturb him. Unsurprisingly, she cooked well too and brought delicious bentos for both of them every Friday: they dined on the school roof during long recesses. She was attentive, most of all.

“Sakakura!” she yelled at his back, and he heard the sound of quickly approaching steps against the moist asphalt.

It had been raining the entire day. Munakata had caught a cold and skipped classes, so Juzo was walking home alone with his hood pushed over his head, though it had already gone completely soaked.

“Sakakura, you’ll catch a cold too if you walk in the rain like this.” That said, Chisa raised her hand so that he would get under her polka-dot umbrella.

“I’m fine.” Juzo leaned away, but before he could escape, Chisa wedged her arm around his elbow and tugged him close.

“Why are you so aloof? You should’ve told me that you don’t have an umbrella,” said Chisa with a rebuking note. “What are friends for?”

“Thank you,” he replied, a little constrained. “I don’t think friends are made to be solicited.”

“Huh?”

They rounded the corner of the school, and Chisa peered at him with unhidden curiosity.

“You don’t have to do anything for me, that’s what,” said Juzo quietly. He felt Chisa’s hold tighten around his arm; she chuckled lightly.

“And you don’t have to act so sophisticated around me, you know?” There was a gleeful smile in her big eyes. Juzo sighed.

Silent walks with her on Munakata's absence had become a little tradition; Juzo wasn’t the type to babble and preferred to listen, and yet Chisa seldom spoke when they were alone. She seemed to be more talkative when Munakata was around, and Juzo didn’t fail to notice it.

“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” He asked one day when they were on their way to rehearsal in Munakata’s garage. It was early spring, and they’ve only recently changed into jackets, but the wind was still briskly chill.

“Like hell I am,” grinned Chisa. “You might seem like a tough guy to someone who doesn’t know you. Yet I’ve seen how you drool over marshmallow coffee.”

Chisa certainly wasn’t the submissive type; she had the energy for everything, she rocked on the stage, always wearing a smile; she talked back in arguments, she never gave up. And Juzo came to realize that her determination was crucial in reaching Munakata’s dream.

Their ways parted in college; Munakata and Chisa chose music major, but Juzo failed the exam. So not to lose a year in vanity, he picked a major at random and took the psychology exam as last resort. Miraculously, he passed it.

He didn’t enjoy the classes much – they were driving him to sleep. Juzo was mostly scribbling or napping during lectures; he only looked forward to lunches with Munakata and Chisa at the cafeteria, and then to the end of classes, after which they would go rehearse.

One day, he was gently elbowed in his ribs. He flinched, snapping his eyes open and staring at a girl next to him – silvery, messy bangs, a leather mask covering her mouth, red-sprinkled eyeballs. Juzo tried to recall whether he’d seen her before in class to address her, but she spoke first.

“The professor has been staring at you for some time, so I thought I’d wake you up,” said the girl in whisper. “You started to snore, too.”

The course they were taking together was the history of psychiatry. That girl, Kimura Seiko, was at the pharmacy major and started to keep an eye on him whenever he dozed off.

“You should sleep at home, don’t you know it?” she said once while they were walking out of the lecture room. “The midterms are coming, too. You’ll get into trouble if you don’t start studying right now.”

“I’m not that interested in this subject,” said Juzo nonchalantly. “In fact, I’m here only to get a major for a tick.”

After he told her about Futuremore, Munakata and Chisa, Kimura let out a heavy sigh.

“I see. But if you don’t want to get kicked out, I am willing to help you study for midterms.”

To that, Juzo reluctantly agreed, and started seeing Kimura way more often. He even skipped lunch with Munakata and Chisa sometimes, but fortunately the seeds of knowledge in psychology began to grow in, making him more and more interested in subjects he once believed to be useless for his future. 

“You see, Sakakura,” Kimura said when they were sitting on the grass in the backyard, Juzo chewing a crepe and she sipping tea from her thermos; a thick bundle of notes spread in front of them. “Human’s heart is hard to tell, you never know what other people think and feel until they tell you themselves. And even if they do, they might not understand their own feelings completely. It’s a confusing matter, and to convey emotion through a song one must know the complexity of human's soul.”

The more Juzo talked with Kimura, the easier it became for him to see through things that once seemed sophisticated, alien or illogical. With that, a vague comprehension started to form in his mind.

It was not long before midterms when he invited Kimura to have lunch with him, Munakata and Chisa. At first, she refused quite resolutely, but he kept pressing and eventually Kimura gave up.

“You must be Kimura-chan!” chimed Chisa with delight upon seeing her. “Sakakura told me you were joining us, so I made an extra lunch! Do you like cupcakes?”

“Sorry, I’m allergic to sweet food,” muttered Kimura, turning even paler than she already was. “But don’t worry, I brought my own lunch with me. Thank you for bothering, though.”

The conversation wasn’t as lively as usual, and Juzo couldn’t help but notice Munakata and Chisa exchanging amused glances. Clueless, he tried to convince Kimura to tell them about the pharmacy faculty, which she was about to do when suddenly their lunch was interrupted.

“Oh, Seiko!”

A short girl with bob-cut pink hair stopped by their table and grasped Kimura’s shoulder, making her flinch. By her side stood a tall, aloof guy whose face was partly hidden under his high collar.

“Hello, Ruruka,” uttered Kimura quietly, trying to shake off her hand.

“And here I was wondering why you’re not eating alone anymore,” sighed the Ruruka girl. “Found new friends, huh? And this is your boyfriend, I assume?”

With an ominous grin, Ruruka nodded at Juzo’s direction, and his fists tightened.

“He’s not,” hissed Kimura through her teeth. “He’s my classmate, and these are his friends.”

“What’s your problem?” interfered Munakata, peering sullenly at Ruruka.

“Oh, nothing,” chirped the girl and turned away. “Have fun with new friends then, Seiko! Let’s go, Izayoi.”

Juzo did notice how grim Kimura turned after that encounter, even though she tried to look cheerful through the rest of the lunch.

Having successfully passed the midterm exams, Juzo still didn’t feel relieved. What bothered him most was the growing distance between him, Munakata and Chisa – the two of them spent more time together than they did with him. Sure thing, their major was different and they needed to study too, but the stinging sensation in Juzo’s chest wasn’t making that argument valid enough.

At the end of the first year in college, they were invited to a big annual rock festival where they brilliantly performed their first single, _White Ash_. Munakata was happy, and to Juzo that meant his own happiness. When they were invited to a record label for an interview, Juzo felt that their friendship began to repair.

They threw a party in honor of their debut, to which a lot of people, including Kimura, were invited. Juzo kept gulping on daiquiris and was comfortably tipsy when someone’s arms wrapped around his middle from behind. He grunted, but when he turned his head, his heart sank to his toes.

“I’m honestly so happy,” said Munakata, his voice gentle with a soft strain. His chin pressed to the crook of Juzo’s tense neck. “And I’m so grateful to you, thank you so much for sticking with me, Sakakura.”

Dissolving in the sensation of Munakata’s arms around him, Juzo felt heat rushing thickly to his face. It was alcohol, he said to himself, and kept repeating so as Munakata squeezed him in a hug and briskly ran off.

That warmth lingered within him for hours, infecting his blood with inexplicable tenderness.

A couple of days after Kimura didn’t show up at the class. Concerned, Juzo messaged her whether she was alright, to which she replied that he needn’t worry. After a dozen of texts Juzo succeeded at inviting her out for coffee after classes.

“Okay, I haven’t told anyone about this, but I believe that you of all people will understand me,” sighed Kimura and took a sip of her black coffee as they were sitting in an empty shop.

“Go on.”

“Remember Ruruka? That girl who showed up during our lunch some months ago.”

“That rude asshole with pink hair?”

“Yes,” Kimura peered out of the window wistfully. She nervously fingered her cup, as if bracing for something. “Our parents were friends, actually. I got acquainted with Ruruka in kindergarten; we went to the same school, too. That guy with her, Izayoi, is her boyfriend. They’ve been together as long as I remember.”

“Why was she bitching if you’re close friends?”

Kimura drank some more coffee. Her eyes – the only indicator of emotion on her face since she didn’t remove the mask even when drinking, only unzipped it – darted about the shop, not settling anywhere. Finally, she met Juzo’s gaze.

“I’ve been in love with her for a long while,” she mused, and her perpetually tired eyes lowered. Juzo felt as if air was knocked out of his lungs; he stared at her, agape.

“Wait... So, what you’re telling is, you love your best friend but she dates that guy and– No way.”

“Uh-huh,” Kimura sighed. “She found out right before we were about to enter college. I was reckless enough to forget to hide my diary in a locked drawer like I’d used to do. She came over and, I assume, rummaged through my stuff. I didn’t know she would do such a thing.”

Cold sweat forming on his temples, Juzo tensed and leaned forward. His heart was painfully bending in his ribcage, beating erratically in a tremendously strong fit of empathy.

“That’s still not a reason to act like a piece of crap,” he countered.

“Well, she doesn’t, actually. We never spoke since then besides that one time in the cafeteria. But I ran into her this morning in the hall and, well... I didn’t feel like attending the class afterwards.”

Thinking of possible ways to provide at least a fraction of comfort, Juzo ordered more coffee for Kimura. His mind and heart were at great unease as she kept telling him about her unrequited love for Ruruka.

“Izayoi never acted friendly towards me, but if he did, it probably would be even worse,” she said, her voice sad. “I have no idea whether she’d told him about this. If she had, he is likely to hate me.”

They stayed in the shop until it was about to close, and Juzo’s heart kept lashing in ache. When they came out, Kimura suddenly put a hand onto his shoulder and patted it.

“I told you about this because we're in the same boat.”

Juzo stared at her uncomprehendingly.  

“You love your best friend who dates someone else too, don’t you.”

His eyes widened. The jealousy he felt when he first saw Munakata and Chisa kissing, the lingering unease whenever they did so in his presence, his dread to lose Munakata, his nervous dreams in which Munakata abandoned him, intrusive thoughts of how - if their band broke up -they might not be friends anymore, and that weird yet so blissful feeling he got when Munakata hugged him...

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked with a broken wheeze.

Kimura peered at him with knowing sorrow.

“How often you talk about him and how pleased you sound doing so; the way you look at him, your facial expression when you talk to him, especially at the party the other day when he threw himself on you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

He didn’t remember what he replied, but he did remember how he was running home, yet in different direction; how he spent two whole hours just running, how tears dried before they could form due to the merciless wind and motion; and how, when he finally stopped by the riverbank, panting and holding his knees, he collapsed to the moist grass and burst out crying, hopeless, broken, shaken with those cowardly tears.

Because what Kimura so easily spotted was the notion he’d been running away from for years. Because accepting it meant accepting defeat. Because there was nothing that could be done. Because Munakata loved Chisa and Chisa loved him back; no, because Munakata did not love _him_ back and never would. The hope was long since lost for Juzo.

When he came to his senses, the sun had already sat. He got up, straightened, and promised himself that he would never cry again. After all, Munakata was alive and happy, their band was rising to new heights, and if Juzo loved Munakata, the only thing he could do was to keep supporting him. Because they were best friends, and that couldn't be taken from him.

After the coffee shop incident, opposite to Juzo’s fearful expectations, he and Kimura grew closer. That conversation developed a strong bond of trust between them, and soon Juzo found himself comfortable talking about his feelings. And the more he talked, the more he realized how profound those feelings were.

He couldn’t call himself unhappy, though. Their new manager, Kazuo Tengan, arranged the record of their first album, titled after their single – _White Ash_ , and Munakata’s excitement about it was so contagious that Juzo kept daydreaming about their world tours and rock star lives during classes. They’d also gotten a new drummer – Shinichiro Gozu from music major senior year, whom they gave an alias Great Gozu due to his enormous height and ripped constitution, which even Juzo thought a bit intimidating. Yet Gozu was a cheerful and humorous guy; to their first hour-long live he brought a bull mask that suited the overall style of Futuremore so well it was decided for him to never remove it on stage.

All was going well: their album got in all the local top charts, and a tour of six concerts to different prefectures was about to begin. They were entering senior year, and Juzo decided to drop off the college for it would interfere with the tour; not that he really wanted to become a professional psychologist anyway. Munakata and Chisa, though, chose to finish the studies via distant education.

There were local concerts, too, and once Juzo glimpsed Kimura waving to him from the crowd of fans. After the show, he snatched her away and took her to the backstage with them. Kimura, which was rare of her, unabashedly admired their performance and costumes that indeed were flamboyant. Munakata’s hair was styled into a mohawk, he wore a heavy and obscure make up, a fishnet top and a ragged tie, skinny leather pants and combat boots. Chisa was in a lacy corset and puffy red skirt, innumerable accessories decorating her arms and neck; her latex knee-high boots on insane platforms seemed to get the most of Kimura's attention. As for Juzo, he’d recently gotten a massive black tattoo on his chest, and was wearing a ragged skin-tight midriff that showed it off nicely due to the enormous cleavage; his destroyed pants were tucked into a pair of Dr. Martens, and like icing on the cake, a leather choker was throttling his thick neck.

“I wouldn’t recognize you guys if I saw you in the street,” Kimura chuckled. “Especially you, Munakata.”

“Thanks,” Munakata laughed. The thick eyeliner that had been once neat had gone smudged all over his sweaty face.

It took Kimura half an hour to touch every single one of Chisa’s accessories, and it didn’t help that Chisa was commenting on where she’d bought them all. Juzo was about to go outside for a smoke when Kimura approached him with her signature eye-smile.

“Sakakura,” she spoke a little quieter as Great Gozu passed behind her back. “Actually, I have a small offer for you.”

“Hm?”

“I’m renting a very nice apartment downtown,” she said with a little excitement. “And Yukizome just told me that you’re living in a frayed room in a remote area.”

“Well, I’m barely present there,” shrugged Juzo. “But what’s your offer?”

“I have a spare room, so if you want, I’ll gladly share my lovely apartment with you. The price is high, but it’s worth it.”

Juzo frowned in ponder. The nights he’d spent in that cold, seemingly haunted room were far from delightful.

“And it wouldn’t be so lonely, right?” added Kimura, wringing her hands.

Juzo snickered.

“If you just want company, you should’ve said so. I don’t mind.”

And so Juzo settled in Kimura’s residence. Regaining a trusted friend like her saved him from a lot of anxiety and nervousness, not to mention that Kimura had a pill for every possible ailment. When both happened to be home, they had dinner together, sometimes Kimura drank beer (Juzo preferred a cocktail but usually passed) and talked about her work. It occurred to Juzo that many people would assume them dating or even married, and thinking of it always made him chuckle humorlessly: how much irony was in two people living together when both of them suffered from unrequited love for someone else.   

It’s been two years since Juzo moved to Kimura’s place; Futuremore released three more singles and one new album. The world tour Juzo used to daydream about in college still isn’t in their plans, but looking at Munakata’s determined face, he is sure that it’s on a short-term horizon.

Juzo is shaken up from his shallow slumber by a steady vibration of his phone. Grunting angrily, he reaches to it and grabs it without looking at the incoming number.

“Hey,” he mutters hoarsely.

“Hey, Sakakura,” utters Chisa, fast and unusually aggrieved. “Tengan-san summons us all to the office. He says it’s urgent.”


	3. Chapter 3

Frustrated with the fact that he has slept through the whole day and it's already 8 am of the next morning, Juzo rushes to freshen up and snatch something to eat – before departing, Kimura left him a nice plate of jam sandwiches on the table. Munching those with a wet towel hanging off his shoulders, Juzo dials Munakata’s number – Chisa said she isn’t aware of any details, and as the lead singer, Munakata must know something.

“Morning.” Juzo smiles as Munakata picks up and grunts into the receiver.

“Good morning, Sakakura.” Munakata lets out a prolonged yawn. “What’s wrong with both of you? Yukizome has just called me several times in a row, but I didn’t manage to get to my phone.”

Juzo furrows, putting the half-eaten sandwich aside.

“So you mean you don’t know anything?”

“About what?”

“About the meeting with Tengan-san.”

After a small pause Munakata hums and yawns again.

“No idea what are you talking about.”

In brief, Juzo explains the matter to Munakata – in brief, because due to a lack of any understanding he simply tells Munakata to get the fuck up and drag his sleepy ass to the office, to which Munakata reluctantly agrees, yawning through every word.

The morning is grim and unwelcoming, Juzo notes to himself while trying to catch a taxi and huddling himself up under his thin jacket. He lights up a cigarette to get at least this much warmth and regrets not taking a coffee from the vending machine next to their apartment block.

It takes him about half an hour to get to the office, and as he stumbles inside, still shivering, Tengan, Chisa and Great Gozu turn their sullen looks to him. Chisa instantly brightens and jumps up to give him a hug, Gozu nods to him.

“Hasn’t Munakata arrived yet?” asks Juzo.

“Nope. I actually thought you were going to pick him up,” says Chisa, her eyes clueless.

Not once Juzo has wondered why Munakata and Chisa aren't living together: she spends the vast majority of her time at his place anyway – a huge apartment to which he moved after college. Wouldn't it be more convenient to settle together? Yet Juzo has never asked since he prefers to mind his own business.

As they’re leaning back to leather couches, Tengan casts a tired look over the three of them.

“I guess we can start without Munakata-kun,” he says. “It’s not about group decisions anyway, just some information for you.”

Juzo tenses at this funny wording and feels how Chisa does the same by his side.

“I’d like to draw your attention to this diagram over here,” Tengan turns his laptop to them. “As you can see, this is a graph of your popularity by months. Two highest points are your first single and your third single, _White Ash_ and _Release Me_ respectively _._ One popular single per album is quite alright, don’t you think?” He chuckles, but that humorless laugh doesn’t make Juzo feel relieved.

“Tengan-san,” interrupts Gozu. “As I see, the new single _Throw away_ from the yet unreleased album is the lowest point.”

Juzo narrows his eyes at the red mark – so does Chisa – and scoffs at the unimpressive number of sales.

“Excellent, Gozu-kun,” Tengan nods in approval. “Perhaps you might guess the reason, too?”

“But it’s a great song,” argues Chisa. “Kyosuke’s voice is incredible in this one, and the video is quite spectacular.”

“I don’t see a problem with it either,” says Gozu.

“Great song, you say,” Tengan chuckles. “What was it about, again?”

“It’s about fight for freedom,” utters Juzo with a deepening frown.

“Right. Or, more precisely,–” Tengan closes his laptop and clasps his hands on top of the desk, “–the song comprises the image of a warrior for liberty, conveyed by our lead singer.”

The door swings open and Munakata rushes inside, all eyes on him.

“Sorry, I got into a traffic jam.” He smiles and plops down next to Gozu. “So, what’s the deal?”

Laidback, he folds one leg on top of the other and lights up a smoke under Tengan’s heavy glare.

“The deal is, my dearest Munakata-kun, your image isn’t selling anymore.”

“Don’t put it this way!” protests Chisa. Fists tightening, Juzo watches as Munakata’s eyes widen at Tengan.

Composed as ever, Tengan repeats his analysis to Munakata, who listens with a dull look fixed on nothing in particular.

“So this is why I suggest an experiment.” Tengan looks about the room, his eyes lingering on each member of the band. “I do believe in cogency of Munakata-kun’s talent, but if we try a new and fresh perspective, things might, and shall, change in our favor. Futuremore, could you please name me one of the most frightening things that make people dread the future? Think carefully.”

The room falls into silence, and Juzo’s gears click and run around his long since forgotten psychology knowledge.

“It’s uncertainty,” he says tentatively. For a split second he feels Munakata’s eyes on him.

“Well.” Tengan grins. “What do you mean by that?”

“They have no way of knowing whether they will succeed in their accomplishments or fail them,” says Munakata.

“They don’t know if they will live through another day,” says Chisa.

“Or if they’re worth anything at all,” says Gozu.

Seemingly pleased, Tengan nods at them and turns to Juzo. He hasn’t given a comprehensive answer yet for his attention started to revolve more and more around the tense aura spreading from Munakata’s side.

“What’s your opinion, Sakakura-kun?” urges Tengan.

“Ugh,” Juzo scratches his head. “It might sound stupid, but I doubt that many people think about failing or being useless. Well, no, they probably do, but if we’re talking about our audience... I think most of all they’re afraid of not being loved.”

Tengan’s mouth crooks in an almost wicked smile.

“Excellent. You are all used to thinking based on your own values and life views, yet usually fans want to relate to something simpler. Sakakura-kun is right; romantic feelings should be the theme for the new song.”

Juzo’s eyebrow rises at his haphazard guess; or was it not that accidental? Come to think of it, the fans he encountered after their last concert were far from concerned about their music but kept asking Juzo about his nonexistent girlfriend. 

“Another change I suggest,” continues Tengan, “is based on the popularity poll from the recent issue of All Star magazine.” Like a lawyer, he pulls out the item in question from under his table. “What could be better than a love song written by our most popular band member – Sakakura Juzo?”

A perplexed feeling creeps into Juzo’s chest, but he endures it and bows slightly to their manager.

“I can handle the lyrics,” he says with a smile. “Frankly, it’s an honor for me to write a song for Munakata.”

Juzo darts a quick glance at his friend, and all constraint vanishes when he sees Munakata smiling warmly at him.

“Oh, that won’t do,” laughs Tengan. Mouth agape, Juzo stares at him. “You will be the one who sings. Munakata will play the guitar and do the back-vocals.”

“That’s–!” Munakata springs to his feet, and Chisa dashes towards him and puts her hands on his shoulders. Juzo’s heart does one pump per ten seconds.

“I’ll explain.” Tengan gestures him to sit down. “For a lyrical sentimental song a deeper voice is required, not to mention how many people will come to live concerts to watch the most popular member in the lead.”

Munakata crosses his arms on his chest, chin up.

“I don’t think I can do this,” says Juzo quietly.

“But you must,” presses Tengan. “And after all, this is just an experiment,” he adds softer, peering at the belligerent Munakata. “If it doesn’t work out, you, Munakata-kun, will perform the vocals for this new song.”

They leave Tengan’s office in low spirits, all silent. Gozu waves goodbye as they’re parting in front of the main entrance and Munakata turns to the smoking area, followed by Chisa.

“Wait, Munakata,” calls Juzo, stretching his arm out and dropping it before he can grab Munakata’s shoulder. “Wait. Yukizome, can you leave us for a moment?”

Without questions, she nods and walks off to an ice cream shop across the road. Juzo taps his fingers inside his pockets.

“You aren’t mad at me?” he asks, glancing Munakata in the eye. His friend doesn’t look back instantly, closes his eyes at the drag, and when he opens them, there’s a smile on his lips. That serene smile of his that always warms Juzo’s heart.

“I have no objections to Tengan,” says Munakata, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray. “And honestly, you’ve been overshadowed by me for so long, I think it’s fair for you to take lead for once.”

“I wasn’t overshadowed or anything.” Juzo clicks his tongue. “It’s your dream, of course it has become my own too, we’ve spent years working this all up and–”

Munakata’s palm on his shoulder, his sincere, profound gaze make Juzo’s ribcage tighten painfully. He counts in his head so that he doesn’t say something odd, as it’s always hard to stay cool when Munakata is so close to him and looks at him with such determination.

“I’m glad that my dream has become your dream, Sakakura. And I’m sorry for acting like a fool, it was just a little too sudden for me. Of course, I want you to have it all, too. You’re so important to me and–”

Cut off by his ringing phone, Munakata pats Juzo’s shoulder and turns away. Vigorously trying to sustain calmness, Juzo can’t get the replaying words out of his head and finds himself breathing harder, his face hot even though it’s so chilly outside.

 

**~***~**

 

He rolls over in bed and bites the pencil. His brain is steamy from hours of tension and concentration, but the paper stays blank.

“Sakakura!” calls Kimura from the living room. “Come on, food’s getting cold!”

“I’m busy!” he shouts, grabbing a fistful of his hair in frustration.

Writing about love turns out to be harder than he thought. Breathing love daily, daydreaming of a certain someone and seeing dreams about them at night is one thing. However, morphing it all into lyrics and tune is another, and Juzo stares at the ceiling, clueless of the right wording.

Saying the word itself is bad taste, he thinks. To convey the sheer emotion, the cruel and heavy feeling that yet adds wings and pours sense into life – that’s much better, is it not? And yet, and yet...

“You’re making me worried.”

Kimura’s dark silhouette freezes in the doorframe, contoured by the artificial light from the living room.

“I’ll eat later, thank you for concern.”

With a deep sigh, she walks into the dimly lit room and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Lyrics?” she asks, likely knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Tengan-san told me to write a love song because we aren’t popular anymore. And even worse, I need to sing it myself.”

“Gosh,” Kimura chuckles. “Congratulations on your promotion, I guess.”

Juzo elbows her thigh and sits up in the lotus pose.

“I can’t put it into words, you see,” he sighs. “It’s like, I know exactly what I want to say but I don’t know how.”

Rubbing her chin, Kimura reflectively peers at the ceiling. Silently, Juzo watches her until she lets out a small hum and turns to him.

“If you were to confess to your Kyosuke, what would you say?”

It is dark in the room besides the nightlight’s dullness, but Juzo looks away to hide the blush creeping on his face. He is not exactly embarrassed; Kimura knows about his feelings for Munakata and it’s not that he feels uncomfortable talking with her about them, but he’s never thought about an actual confession before. Being asked so bluntly makes him confused.

“I don’t know,” he scoffs, lightly punching the pillow. “No idea really.”

“Okay,” Kimura crosses her legs and rubs her chin again, eyes running about. “Would you tell him straight in the face that you love him? Or would you speak in a roundabout way?”

“The latter. If I were to simply blurt ‘I love you’ to him, he’d probably punch me or laugh at me.”

With a grunt, Kimura hits his knee with her small fist; it’s not strong but it’s enough to make him wince.

“Let’s try not to be dramatic _for once_ ,” she suggests, exhaling sharply. “Imagine I’m Munakata.”

“God, no.”

“Shush, do it! Close your eyes if it’s easier that way.”

“Kimura, this is fucking ridiculous.”

“Is it? Then how else are you planning to come up with something?”

“Alright, alright.” Juzo rolls his eyes, aggravated a little. “But I won’t imagine anything.”

“Good, go on.”

He stares at his lap for a while, grateful to Kimura for being patient and, more importantly, silent. He closes his eyes; Kyosuke’s smile today’s morning, the _You’re so important to me_...

“Well, first of all I’d say that I treasure our friendship and I want him to be happy. Also, that I don’t want to hurt Yukizome, she’s my friend too and she supports and loves Munakata, so... Goddammit, this is hard.”

“Sure it is,” agrees Kimura. “But continue.”

“I guess I’d say that I want to be content with how we are, but I’m just, not. I’m not content. I want to be able to express what I feel and–”

Juzo feels hotness spreading in his chest, his face blazing. In his mind run images of him holding Kyosuke in his arms, watching movies on a couch together while Kyosuke plays with his hair, Kyosuke waking up next to him, drowsy and tousled, his disheveled head peeping from under a thick blanket; him kissing Kyosuke’s hand over the breakfast table and hugging Kyosuke from behind as he does the dishes; Kyosuke’s steamy face twisting in pleasure as Juzo pushes his–

“And?” interrupts Kimura. The heated reverie dissolves and escapes Juzo’s mind as he clears his throat.

“I don’t know,” he says, frowning.

“Here we go again.” Kimura makes a helpless gesture. “Are you even trying?”

“I am,” utters Juzo, folding his hands behind his head. “Thing is, even if I’ll get how to phrase this, it still won’t make lyrics.”

“It won’t, but if you keep thinking about him while writing–”

Juzo lets out a broken laugh.

“Do you really think I wasn’t doing that just now?”

“Well,” Kimura shrugs. “I actually think that you’re stuck because you keep neglecting my invitation to dinner.”

“Oh, not again.”

“I’m serious, your diet has been awful these days,” she scolds, pointing her index finger at his nose. “It’s the first time I see you sober for days.”

“Ugh, fine, let’s go eat.” Juzo pushes himself from the bed and stretches.

After dinner they continue struggling to come up with ideas until Kimura drowsily retires – working early again, good night, Sakakura. Juzo stays up for a couple more hours, peering either at the blank sheet of paper or at Munakata’s framed photo.

It’s a picture of him taken back in their high school days: his hair is styled too neatly for how he usually wore it, he’s dressed in a smart suit and makes a speech with a pile of papers in his hand. He doesn’t smile in this one, and yet the picture always reminds Juzo of the beginning, of how he wasn’t aware of his feelings and was glad to be helping Munakata with the band, when naivety and pureness were still familiar to him. Naivety and pureness...

He blinks to clear off the haze from his tired eyes, rushes to write down the idea before it is washed away by slumber. Under the dimness of the nightlight he scribbles down:

_Naivety and pureness_

A vast feeling of accomplishment makes him sigh with relief, and he lets himself melt into the sheets. But as his eyelids droop, he flinches from the vibration of his phone.

“I’m sorry, are you asleep?” asks Chisa’s cheerful voice.

“Not yet. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been thinking about the new song all day,” she says. “You know, don’t worry about it, alright? If you need help, I will do my best.”

“Thanks,” smiles Juzo weakly. “I definitely need your help with the music. Let’s think about it once the lyrics are done, deal?”

“Deal,” chuckles Chisa. “I wanted to tell you that I’m glad you got this chance. Kyosuke is, too. Well, sweet dreams, Sakakura!”

“Good night.”

And on the verge of sleep, Juzo feels wrapped in the warmth of fluid happiness. He will make Futuremore more successful, he will help Munakata reach his dream. They will go on a world tour together, and from his supportive spot of the bassist, Juzo will proudly watch him sing on giant stages of London and New York.


	4. Chapter 4

He’s pinned, and gapes, wordless as Munakata’s left hand presses resolutely to the wall by his head, his right one coming to loosen his tie. Eyes fixed immovably on Munakata’s, Juzo feels a thigh rubbing slowly against his crotch. He wants to swallow but his throat is too dry.

“Wreck me,” Munakata’s lips brush against his ear, and his sensual whisper sends shivers down Juzo’s spine.

They’re on the floor, Munakata sits on his lap and unbuttons his shirt. His teeth flash in a cocky grin. Mechanically, Juzo grins back – he cannot help it even though his arms are glued to his sides, and his legs and neck have gone numb of inner tension. And his heart, racing at the speed of light in his chest, is on the verge of an attack.

“You want me, don’t you,” mouths Munakata, and Juzo can’t take his eyes off his lips. They glisten as Munakata runs his tongue over them, smiling wickedly.

They’re against the wall again, and hunger is too imminent. Juzo’s teeth sink into Munakata’s bare neck, lips sucking on pale skin with desperate craving to mark Munakata his own. Munakata pants against his ear, small rousing moans coming from his parted mouth.

Juzo’s hands are made of steel and locked on Munakata’s neck. He can see a vein pulsing rapidly in it, and Munakata peers at him with a wide, sinister smirk.

“Fuck me,” he orders hoarsely, grabbing a fistful of Juzo’s hair.

His eyes are bloodshot. The pressure in his head is so high that his vision blurs when he drives his hips at a broken pace, hammering with seething, ferocious fury. Munakata’s jaw drops, his eyes roll into his head, and a ragged laugh escapes his strangled throat. Something slick and hot stains Juzo’s face – he blinks, and Chisa’s big eyes full of tears and dread stare back at him with shocked remorse. Dazed, Juzo releases her from his grip, and she falls to the floor, senseless.

Juzo throws his eyes open, heaving, iced with gross film of cold sweat. He pulls his eyes wider apart until they strain, and pinches his own arm. It hurts; the nightmare has ended. Just a dream, just a dream.

Still shaken, he strolls to the shower, noticing the blazing red figures of the clock in the living room on his way: it’s past 12 pm. His sleeping schedule began to alter three days ago when he discovered that the best time for writing lyrics was at night. Having not come up with the final version, Juzo yet asked the rest of the band to run a rehearsal today: with music it might become easier to make the lyrics fit.

After a quick shower he feels refreshed and ready to go; he brews some coffee and makes French toasts. Three teaspoons of sugar, a bit of milk, a little marshmallow. Kimura has never approved of how much sugar he consumes, so he’s lowkey glad that she’s long since left for work.

Humble breakfast and some stretches later, Juzo picks up his phone and not with little concern discovers a dozen of missed calls and a text from Chisa.

_Good morning, Sakakura. Kyosuke’s sick, so we’ll have to skip today’s gathering. Sorry. Let’s move it to tomorrow._

As he’s about to type an answer, another text comes.

_Please, call me back when you’re awake. I need your help._

Without second thought, Juzo presses _Call_.

“Hello.”

Eyebrow rising, Juzo wonders how the voice of the everlastingly upbeat Chisa can sound so utterly beaten.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You sound like you’re dead.”

“I almost am,” she utters emotionlessly. “I’ve been nursing Kyosuke since yesterday evening. I need to sleep so bad... Could you please come over and keep an eye on him for a while?”

“Why, sure. Of course.”

“Just a couple of hours is fine.” She sounds unusually worn out, which makes Juzo worried even more.

“Hang in there, Yukizome, I’m coming.”

Hanging up, Juzo rushes to grab his jacket and put on his sneakers, not bothered to change his quite unappealing tracksuit. He’s lucky to catch a taxi right away, even more so that the road isn’t loaded much. Yet he spends the fifteen minute ride nervously tapping his thumb against his knee, debating whether he should finally buy a car or at least a chopper.

He sees the bags below Chisa’s eyes before she fully comes to his sight as she opens the door. His arm jerks to rest on her shoulder and support her, but – _strangled neck, big eyes full of tears_ – Juzo flinches and draws it back.

“We were watching that new horror movie when he suddenly looked so worn,” utters Chisa as they walk through the narrow hallway, her arms wringed and hands clasped behind her back. “He said that he was just tired, but an hour later he was burning, he couldn’t even hold a glass of water so I had to hold it for him. I called a doctor, and they said to give him an injection to lower his fever. It did drop for a while, but then rose up again...”

Abruptly, Chisa ceases her steps and turns, her head bumping into Juzo’s chest as she weakly reaches up to his shoulders. Among her feeble sobs, he can’t distinguish any words; he pats her head softly.

“There, there. You can rest now. How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know,” she whines, sounding less broken now. “More than 30 hours, I guess. I’m... I’ll go lie down. Take care of him, Sakakura.”

With that said, Chisa leans away from him, staggering as she drags herself to the couch in the living room. Waiting for her to plop on it and satisfied seeing so, Juzo heads to the bedroom.

Even though it's afternoon, the curtains are drawn, and his eyes take a while to adjust. Not many times before has he been to Munakata’s room: bigger than Juzo’s own in Kimura’s apartment, with neat bookshelves, his guitar, the first Futuremore poster on a wall. There’s a potted plant on the windowsill: a red orchid Chisa gave Munakata for their one year anniversary. His usually tidy nightstand is laden with pill blisters, packs of cough powder, syrup bottles, thermometers and several cups; a framed photo of him and Chisa composedly hugging each other is pushed against the wall by a small wash-basin filled with water. 

At first Juzo assumes that Munakata is asleep, but as he approaches a lonely chair by the bed and picks up a book lying there, his ear catches husky mumbling.

“Yukizome... Yukizome, I’m cold... Turn on the gas...”

Frowning, Juzo feels his temperature: Munakata’s skin is blazing hot. He picks a rug from the nightstand and soaks it in the basin; carefully, he wipes Munakata’s forehead, turns the rug over and leaves it there to cool him down.

“Yukizome is resting,” he says quietly and takes Munakata’s hot, limp hand. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

“Juzo... I’m cold, please...”

Heartened at hearing Munakata calling him by his given name, Juzo strokes his hand in attempt to soothe him, but Munakata’s face twists as if he’s in pain. He’s lying under two thick blankets with his arms pulled out, showing long sleeves of his plain shirt. Juzo checks the fabric: it’s wet.

“Do you mind if I change your clothes? You’re cold because of them.”

“Please,” mumbles Munakata. “Please, it’s so cold, I’m freezing, Juzo...”

He glances about the room and makes a beeline to the wardrobe: all Munakata’s clothes are neatly folded, and it takes some time for Juzo to find the shelf where he keeps his spare pajamas. To his dismay, Munakata doesn’t have any long-sleeved shirts left, so he continues his search until he comes across a sweat shirt that doesn’t seem to be new or too expensive to be worn in Munakata’s condition.

“Can you sit up?” asks Juzo, a shirt in one hand and a pair of pants in the other. “I’ll help you change.”

“I think I can,” wheezes Munakata, but as he strenuously and vainly fights with the blankets, the rug sliding from his forehead, Juzo understands that it is not possible. With a small sigh, he sits down on the bed and tugs the blankets aside.

“Come on,” he says, gently grabbing Munakata’s shoulders and pulling him up. “Brace yourself, you can do it.”

“Everything’s floating.” Munakata chuckles dryly as Juzo helps him sit up.

“Hang on. Lift your arms. Good.”

Juzo pulls his arms away, slow and cautious so that Munakata doesn’t drop back down. He peels off the messy shirt and takes it over Munakata’s head; pale skin is tinted with crimson, and Munakata clearly makes an effort to sit upright. Juzo takes the fresh shirt and pulls it on him.

“Thank you.” Munakata lets out an exhale, and it is evident from his drooped eyes that he is about to fall. With a small grunt, Juzo wedges his arms under Munakata’s arms, hands resting on his shoulderblades.

“Not yet,” he says, trying to sound encouraging. “Your pants, too.”

A voiceless whimper brushes over Juzo’s neck, making him freeze. Still and numb, he feels Munakata’s hands pressing heavily to his shoulders; they tremble weakly as Munakata drags his legs out and shifts in the hold until he’s sitting sideways to Juzo. His eyes are closed, and before Juzo can move to make some room for him, Munakata leans onto his shoulder; without proper balance he slides against Juzo’s chest and lower, his head settling on Juzo's thigh.

Heart racing, Juzo keeps his hands in the air, staring as Munakata lies comfortably on his lap.

“Get up,” he says, a little too unevenly. “I can’t change your pants if you’re lying.”

Munakata hums in reply and drags his hand up to put it under his head.

Dazed, Juzo watches his best friend – someone he’s been in love with for years – placed so snugly and intimately; he realizes he’s holding his breath and lets it out. Sure thing, if Munakata is cold due to his sweaty clothes, Juzo needs to help him change, yet having him this close, pressed to his thighs so warmly, and not shaking anymore... Juzo can’t bring himself to move an inch.

Munakata seems to be fast asleep; his breath is even, fluttering eyelids closed and mouth slightly open. Leaning back a little with his hands propped on the mattress, Juzo attempts to steady his rapid heartbeat with deep inhales.

How many times has Chisa had Munakata lying on her lap so light-heartedly? For her, it must be no big deal. She probably doesn’t even pay attention when they’re watching a movie on the couch and Munakata lies like this; she doesn’t even blink, one hand snatching popcorn and the other petting his head and playing with his strands.

Juzo’s eyes narrow: Munakata’s silvery hair is a little bit greasy (no wonder, considering how long he’s been staying in bed) but looks incredibly silky to the touch. Before Juzo’s mind proceeds to contemplate the idea, his hand comes to rest on top of Munakata’s head. Holding his breath, Juzo waits a painfully long second: no response of any kind. Relieved, he slowly rubs his fingertips against Munakata’s scalp, feeling the luscious bangs on his skin; entangles his fingers in that blissful softness and rubs, strokes and caresses Munakata as if he were a cat.

Captivated in a completely alien and yet so pleasant, heart-melting sensation, Juzo starts when he hears a small groan.

“A bit to the left,” mumbles Munakata, and Juzo’s heart sinks to his toes.

He wasn’t asleep, or he was, but Juzo’s reckless move shook him awake and he didn’t show any signs of being conscious. Dumbstruck, Juzo seeks an excuse, a distraction – anything to cover up for his slip.

“Why did you stop?” murmurs Munakata, stirring against him. Juzo expects him to lift his head, but Munakata only makes himself more comfortable.

“Should I continue?” asks Juzo uncertainly, only to say something.

“Please do, Sakakura,” utters Munakata huskily. “It feels really nice, and the pain subdues. So, if it’s not much of a nuisance...”

“I don’t mind,” says Juzo, a little bit too eager. “Anything for you to feel better.”

And as Juzo rubs, strokes and pats his head, pouring all his tenderness into the caresses, his heart swells into an enormous squashy mass beneath his ribs. He can’t wipe a stupid smile off his face and is glad that Munakata doesn’t look at him; his lungs are overfilled with air, and he forgets to breathe in liquid happiness that takes over his body and overflows it. If he opened his mouth, emotions would drip out, and he’d make a gurgle spluttering on them, so he forcefully keeps it shut.

When Munakata is asleep, this time for real, Juzo doesn’t cease petting him. His face looks peaceful, and he’s not sickly red anymore; his skin isn’t burning, his clothes seem to be dry. Peering into space, Juzo thinks that no matter how naive he might be, the pureness of his feelings towards Munakata is way nobler and more generous than any dirty dream of his suggests.

 

**~***~**

 

Juzo returns home long after the sunset: Chisa woke up at 7 pm and found him and Munakata sleeping soundly across the tousled bed.

“I hope you haven't gotten infected, Sakakura,” she said worriedly at the door.

“Even if I have, Kimura won’t let me have it,” chuckled Juzo and waved her goodbye.

Sickness or coldness are far from what he feels on his way home: he strolls down the streets, breathing chilly air with whole lungs, smiling to his thoughts. Could he be happier? Not only did Munakata lie in his lap, he allowed Juzo to pat his head and even more so, enjoyed it. Juzo couldn’t care less about some stupid cold when he got to relieve Munakata’s pain and made him feel better. He must recover soon, too, as for he didn’t show any signs of lingering fever before Juzo left.

In uplifted mood, Juzo jogs up to the seventh floor he and Kimura live on. About to insert the key, he overhears two voices from the apartment.

“...anymore,” says Kimura.

“I know,” sounds an unfamiliar male voice.

Eyebrow rising, Juzo hides the key in his pocket and gives the door several polite knocks. Before he can blink, Kimura’s head pops out from behind it, her eyes filled with remorse and something Juzo indicates as smoldering rage. Upon seeing him, her glare softens.

“Ah, it’s you.” She sounds relieved. “Did you forget your key?”

“Yes,” lies Juzo more to the unknown male inside than to Kimura.

As he enters the hall and kicks his sneakers off, though, he spots a familiar face. Juzo saw the guy only once but memorized his gloomy gaze and his collar that’s pulled up so high it adds an unfriendly vibe to his appearance.

“I’ll be going then,” the guy says, heading towards the door. Juzo steps aside, keeping an eye on him.

“Wait, Izayoi!” Kimura runs to him and grabs his sleeve. Quickly as possible, Juzo retires to the kitchen, but he still catches a bit of their conversation.

“I didn’t say no, okay?” utters Kimura lowly, her voice strained.

“Okay,” answers Izayoi blankly.

Juzo boils water for tea when Kimura enters the kitchen and plops down on a chair, her hands coming to grip her messy hair.

“What the fuck happened?” he asks.

“Can we drink tea first?” says Kimura with a humorless laugh; on that Juzo silently agrees.

But not even halfway through the first cup, Kimura’s eyes redden, moist and glistening. Frowning, Juzo puts his hand onto her shoulder: she’s shaking.

“He told me that Ruruka won’t stop talking about me; she seems to be looking for a meeting with me. I saw her entering my drugstore the other day, so I–” Her words are cut off by a heavy sob. Juzo stands up and wraps his arms around her.

Seeming overall resilient lately, Kimura hasn’t been mentioning Ruruka as much as before, so Juzo didn’t put much thought into it, concluding that she must have recovered from her feelings. But now, as Kimura cools off her face by waving her hands about it, tears still gushing down and soaking her mask, he realizes that she hasn’t gotten over it yet.

“I was hiding in the storage until she left,” Kimura continues, having calmed down a little and gesturing Juzo to sit down. “Frankly, I was so anxious to leave early that day I made some crucial mistakes and my pay might be cut next month.”

“I’m sorry,” says Juzo, not knowing a better thing to say. “I’ll pay the whole rent then, it’s not a problem.”

She gazes at her own locked hands, muttering a soft ‘thank you’.

“Did that guy come to force you into a meeting with her?” inquires Juzo, fists tightening.

“Not to force,” mutters Kimura, peering at the wall. “He said that, well... Ruruka seems to be weirdly obsessed with me. It wasn’t that prominent in college, but Ruruka hasn’t found a job since they graduated, so unemployment must be doing things to her. Izayoi says that she...” Kimura looks to the side, her eyes showing raw emotion. “She misses me but won’t make the first move. I guess her coming to the drugstore wasn’t intentional either. But if she really does want to see me, she can do it anytime; it’s not that hard to get someone’s number or address, which is exactly what Izayoi himself did.”

“Aren’t they a couple of creeps,” winces Juzo.

“No.” Kimura shakes her head. “I might not know Izayoi very well, but I’m sure that he wants best for Ruruka, and if he sees her bothered with something, he’ll do anything to help her.”

“Does the universe revolve around her or what?”

Kimura stares at him with fierceness Juzo rarely observes in her.

“Sakakura, I didn’t know you’re this hard-hearted.”

Like a prick to his dignity, it makes Juzo feel ashamed. He holds her glare and sighs.

“Sorry. It’s just because I’m biased, I don’t know them but I know you and I’ve seen how that Ruruka girl talks to you.”

Kimura softens, and a shadow of a sad smile glows in her eyes.

“I’m glad to have you on my side, but please, look from other perspectives too. Have you ever taken into account what Yukizome thinks?”

“Huh?”

Clueless to that sudden twist of the topic, Juzo freezes with his tea halfway to his mouth.

“To me, it feels like she would think about how you and Munakata were friends long before she appeared. That Munakata practically hired her to his band and she simply volunteered... but then she happened to fall in love with him. And even though they are together, she knows that there are things that may be more important to him. There’s his dream, and there’s you, Sakakura.”

“So what you’re saying is…”

Kimura picks her teacup matter-of-factly.

“Don’t envy someone if you don’t know what their own burdens are.”

Juzo opens his mouth to say that he’s not envious of Yukizome; he might be jealous, but still he wishes her all the best, but _hands on throat, terrified eyes, bloody tears, a limp fall to the floor_. He cuts himself off.

“So, Izayoi asked me to meet with Ruruka this weekend,” says Kimura with resolute placidity. “I said that I’ll think about it.”

She then proceeds to ask about their rehearsal and Juzo’s progress on the lyrics, and Juzo tells her briefly about the cancellation and Munakata’s sickness. A cool professional, Kimura disapproves of their not having admitted Munakata to the hospital, but then remarks that if the fever passed, then it wouldn’t take long for him to completely recover.

Saying good night to Kimura after the tea and washing dishes, Juzo sits on his bed in the dark, his phone in his hand. Dozen minutes pass before he goes to the contacts and dials Chisa.

“Hey,” a cheerful voice greets him.

“Hey. You alright?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” laughs Chisa. Juzo can’t help but smile.

“Yukizome,” he utters quietly. “If you ever need my help, ask right away, okay?”

“Yes, why?” she sounds amused.

“Because we’re friends and you can always rely on me.”

Even though she chuckles, her voice becomes serious and even more so, grateful.

“Of course. Same goes for you.”


	5. Chapter 5

With the last drawn syllable, Juzo lets go of the bass. Panting, he hesitates to turn and look at everyone; he takes a deep breath, bracing himself. But before he has a chance to say anything, Munakata’s voice startles him from behind. It’s so unusual to hear it coming from there.

“Not bad,” says Munakata, his tone gravely serious. “Gozu, I think we need more drumming closer to the end.”

“But softer,” adds Chisa. “Sakakura’s voice is intense like a drum on its own.”

Reluctantly, Juzo glances at Chisa, and their eyes meet. There’s a faint smile on her purple lips, yet her gaze is pensive.

They sit down around the small scene of the rehearsal venue, drinking water and cooling down. Juzo’s throat feels like he’s swallowed a glassful of needles and a piece of sand paper.

He stares into space, not immersed into the conversation, overhearing only random words. His neck is blazing of heat, and cold sweat slides down his temples. Patiently, Juzo waits for at least a fraction of recognition, but the band seem to be focused on discussing the music, not his hard fought lyrics or singing.

It is long past sunset when they agree to scatter and Munakata proposes to go have a drink. He’s completely recovered in just two days and looks as good as new. Fresh, kempt, smelling nicely of rich cologne and musk.

“I’ll go change then!” says Chisa and flees to the closet. Great Gozu, as always, politely excuses himself and leaves: his baby daughter wouldn’t be glad if he went drinking this late.

Busying himself with fingering a hole in his destroyed jeans, Juzo doesn’t instantly notice Munakata approaching and plopping down next to him on the sofa. Their shoulders bump, and Juzo’s nostrils fill with dying scent of cigarettes.

“You’ve done a splendid job, I must admit,” says Munakata, one corner of his mouth rising in approval. “Only that, the line with _Naivety is gone_ seems a little bit out of place. See, when you use it after _Sublimation bleeds into despair, The pure kind destroys the unfair_ , it sounds a bit... It sounds like you’re trying to squeeze in too many rhymes, but you have no rhythm. And the words you use, they–”

With widening eyes, Juzo listens to Munakata dissing on every line of his song, crushing even his best-constructed phrases. What splendid job has he just been talking about?

“But don’t worry,” adds Munakata with earnest compassion. “We’ll help you rewrite it.”

“But I wanted to write it on my own,” utters Juzo quietly, feeling a shadow of smoldering anger hovering over him.

“Of course,” nods Munakata. “You should only make some changes; me and Yukizome can suggest you a few, too.”

“No.” Juzo shakes his head resolutely. “You may do the back-vocals; you may sing it all, if you want. But I insist on writing the lyrics.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Munakata grins confidently. Juzo’s chest swells, and he grins back: by the posture and gaze he knows that Munakata is proud of him.

“Alright, so be it. I can’t argue with such devotion.”

Juzo is partly glad that Munakata is clueless of his real intention. Besides from far-fetched naivety and pureness, Juzo has come to realization that his song would convey the immense pain to antagonize them. After all, scene is the only place where Juzo can be honest with himself, and he doesn’t want to besmear his first song with blasphemous pretence.    

As Munakata returns to Chisa who’s just got changed into a lovely gasoline shaded dress, Juzo takes out his notepad and scribbles down Munakata’s amendments, glancing at the top of the page. _Lily Blight Limbo_ , reads the assiduous cursive of the outset.

He hasn’t yet disclosed the title to the band, but he’s bloody proud of it. And he’s positive that even Tengan will like it, that it will achieve success.

The evening in The Marginal bar is buoyant and debauched as ever; liquor flows in infinite amounts as Munakata decides to give a treat to every well-familiar frequenter. After a whole bottle of whiskey, he shouts to the DJ for the instrumental of _Throw away_ and sings on top of the bar desk while the audience loudly cheers him, and Chisa grabs Juzo by the sleeve to force him into a dance. Reluctantly, he rocks with her, sipping on a cocktail in his right hand; Chisa keeps beaming at him and muttering something he can’t hear over the crowd’s chants and Munakata’s deep growl. Mesmerized, he can’t take his eyes off Munakata who’s singing perhaps less desperately than on stage, but yet so fiercely. In a gentle haze of tipsiness, Juzo finds himself smiling like an idiot at Chisa, who laughs boisterously to his face. 

They leave early due to another rehearsal assignment for tomorrow morning, and Juzo strolls towards his home with mixed feelings. Could it be that Munakata in fact is jealous of his current position? What if his lyrics aren’t that bad after all, and Munakata only criticized them out of spite?

No, Juzo shakes his head, this cannot be. Munakata of all people knows how loyal Juzo is to him and how he places Munakata’s goals and dreams above his own. Not that he was all wrong; some parts of the song do sound wacky to Juzo now that he’s thinking about them, and he intends to do his best to fix them.

Entering the apartment block, Juzo glances at his wristwatch: it’s only half past ten, Kimura must still be up. He’s been trying not to bother her with the lyrics for the past few days, but now he could ask for some help with corrections. Maybe if he suggests different options, she will help him choose, thus it won’t be too hard for her and too demanding from him.

When he steps into the hall, their apartment is eerily dark and quiet. Kimura might’ve gone to a convenience store to fetch some milk, Juzo thinks as he enters the living room and mechanically pushes the light switch on.

Astonished, he stares at the scene unfolding before him.

In the center of the room, on the leather couch, two bodies lie entwined; when Juzo’s eyes adjust to the light, he indicates the one on the bottom as Kimura. Her hair is a tousled mess, the everlasting mask hanging from her face on one ear, pale mouth covered in smudged pink lipstick; her eyes grow wide with swirling terror and despair in them, and Juzo glances at the body hovering above her. Short pink hair puffed, pastel peach dress all wrinkled and disorderly, straps shifted from her shoulders – the girl turns her head to him, and with grave alertness Juzo recognizes her smug face.

He stays still as Kimura wrenches herself out of the hold and swiftly pulls up, dashing to him: her white shirt is unbuttoned half-way, skirt torn on the side. Instinctively, Juzo grasps her shoulder to drive her back, but Kimura only clings harder to his side, glaring forward with frantic determination.

“Get out of my sight, bitch!”

Juzo startles at Kimura’s sharp voice and moreover at her swearing – she’s never sworn in his presence before. Ruruka, in her partially destroyed dress, scarlet with fury, glares at Kimura without averting her eyes. It happens too fast: before Juzo manages to step forward, Kimura rushes off, her steps uneven but swift; her hand outstretches, and she slaps the stunned Ruruka across her face. For a moment, dazed and motionless, Ruruka’s features distort, and with a vicious roar she grabs a fistful of Kimura’s hair, both tumbling to the floor.

“Chill!” Juzo dashes to them and forcefully pulls the struggling Ruruka away, clutching her middle in a strong grip with both arms.

“Shut up!” she shouts into his ear, ferociously meandering in his hold and trying to kick him. “I knew it was him! I knew it! Seiko, you’re such an ugly liar!”

Kimura flinches at the sound of her name and springs up from the floor. Something doesn’t look right in her staggering pace; she walks laboriously and, approaching Ruruka who’s blocked in Juzo’s arms, stares coldly into her fiend’s eyes.

“The only liar here is you,” she mutters coldly and grabs Ruruka by the collar. The movement instantly makes Ruruka freeze, and Juzo watches in awe as Kimura’s features twist; abundantly, she spits right into Ruruka's face.

“Now get the fuck out of here,” she demands. Juzo releases his hold on Ruruka, and before he decides to show the door to her, Ruruka grabs her coat and furiously marches out. When the door slams shut, Kimura sinks to her knees.

Lowering beside her, Juzo holds her shoulders; he doesn’t ask anything when he sees the distant dismay in Kimura’s eyes. Her eyebrows drawing together, she lets her head fall on the crook of his neck, and Juzo feels hot tears on his skin. With a small sigh, he pats her disheveled hair.

After a while, Juzo prepares her a hot bath and leaves to put on the kettle for tea: two cups of half-drunken coffee are standing on the table. He hears Kimura faintly calling his name from the bathroom and rushes to her.

Kimura is sitting in the bathtub with her chin resting on her knees, arms weakly wrapped around them. Juzo settles down on the rug and looks into her reddening of the heat face.

“I’m sorry for this,” she mutters quietly. Juzo shakes his head.

“It’s okay. Just tell me what happened.”

Rubbing her finger against her knee, Kimura closes her eyes. It’s so unusual to see her without the mask, and how she worries her lip between her teeth.

“Yesterday evening I called Izayoi and said that I didn’t mind Ruruka coming over today if she still wanted to see me,” Kimura says, barely audible. “She came a few hours ago, I don’t really remember when. She brought me chocolate – dark chocolate for once, and I was pleased that she finally thought of my allergy. It was all good at first, we were drinking coffee and talking. She said she really missed me and didn’t mind all that much that I love her, after all.”

Kimura goes silent for a moment, peering steadily at watery tiles.

“Then we went to the living room – she asked me to show her our graduation photos because she’d lost hers when she was moving to her new apartment. I started to feel very light-headed, and when we were watching the photos together on the couch, Ruruka suddenly began talking nonsense. She said that...” Kimura’s eyes shoot up to Juzo, seeking for support. He nods patiently. “She said that she wanted to have sex with me; of course I protested with the argument that she has Izayoi. Ruruka called him a fool and said that he wouldn’t know anything, so it was fine. I really wanted to refuse, but my body was so heavy and light at once, and she smelled so nice and was right there in front of me... She must’ve slipped something into my coffee when I wasn’t looking because I’m still feeling dizzy.”

“It’s not your fault,” Juzo tries to reason, but Kimura gives him a hard glare.

“It is my fault. I kissed her first; it felt so good when she started to kiss me back and caress me that I forgot myself. I was overwhelmed and couldn’t believe what was happening, and she kept being... persistent, though she didn’t really have to force me. I wanted it, but all the same I was realizing how wrong it was, and how she’ll never love me back, and how the poor Izayoi doesn’t know what a mendacious bitch he’s dealing with.”

Kimura falls silent and, arms tightening around her knees, sinks her face into them. Juzo frowns, contemplating.

“You’d better tell him,” he says resolutely. “It’s ridiculous that he believes she’s an innocent maiden when she’s doing things like this. She doesn’t respect him at all.”

“I know,” mutters Kimura sadly. “But he won’t believe me. He’s really deeply in love with her. Not to mention I should have kicked her out right after her offer, yet I didn’t.”

“Don’t blame solely yourself for it,” snaps Juzo with growing irritation. “That Ruruka is a bitch, she knows you love her and she knows Izayoi loves her, but she’s been playing you both. She’s sick in the head.”

With a silent nod, Kimura gives him a soft smile.

“Thank you, Sakakura. I’m glad that I asked you to live with me back then.” She averts her eyes, but her face looks brighter. “You really are my best friend.”

“Well, as if you’ve just discovered this,” chuckles Juzo, softening; his anger evaporates, and he lifts himself from the floor. “Take your time; I’ll go make you some nice dinner, friend.”

This evening they stay up late: after the dinner, Kimura is the first to touch the subject of rehearsal, and they spend a load of time thinking about corrections. It’s long past midnight when she yawns and retires to her room, and Juzo follows suit soon and goes to his own.

Despite being tremendously tired after such an eventful day, he can’t close his eyes and relax; his eyelids snap wide at swirling thoughts. Ruruka looming over Kimura, Chisa clinging to his arm and then running off to Munakata.

What would he do in a similar situation?

For a while, Juzo tries to banish the images from his mind, but way too soon they overtake. His Kyosuke, lowering his face to Juzo’s, flushing, calling his name in a whisper. His lips are soft, and Juzo can’t get enough of them; he kisses hungrily and bites his tongue, sucks on it until Kyosuke emits a quiet moan into the kiss. Their hands entwine, hips press, breaths hitch and stagger. Juzo’s body shivers under Kyosuke’s in overwhelming bliss, he relishes every motion, every friction that rubs against him and inflames his nerves. He groans and murmurs Kyosuke’s name, and Kyosuke smiles into his skin, kissing his neck. Their pace becomes broken, like waves rolling against sea rocks driven by wild wind, and Juzo’s heart beats faster, each thud deafening in his numb ears.

Kyosuke is thrusting deep inside him, his hands clutching Juzo’s shoulders, his face red and steamy, lips bitten, eyes rolled up. He keeps calling Juzo’s name so endearingly, puncturing it with repeated, thorough pushes, and as he pulls his cock out and––

Biting into his fist to block a moan, Juzo ejaculates into his hand that is wrapped around his cock, pumping it beneath his sweat pants with eager vigor. The sweet fantasy dissolves and, panting, Juzo stares at the dark, pulsing with red circles, ceiling. His coated hand becomes cold with atrocious slickness, and he carefully withdraws it from his pants, cringing and blindly searching for a napkin with his unstained one.

He wants to punch a wall in frustration and embarrassment, but feels too beaten to do so. Having cleaned, he takes off his ruined pants and throws them across the room, slips under the blanket and covers his eyes with his hand, frowning.

The blight inside him too often overpowers the pureness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should add a little warning here: the story will progress in alike obscurity, so if you were shocked by the content of this chapter, I wouldn't recommend to continue reading.  
> To the ones who always read and comment - thank you very much guys! Your support is priceless.


	6. Chapter 6

“Come on, we need to hurry!”

He groans in exhausted reluctance at Chisa who’s trying to snatch the pillow from beneath his head. But since she isn’t the type to give up easily, she tugs on his shoulders and shakes him awake.

“What time is it,” grunts Juzo, cracking one eye open.

“Half past nine!” Chisa frowns at him; her persistent hands let go of him, and she stands belligerently akimbo.

“Just five more minutes... Wait, how did you get in?”

Clicking her tongue, Chisa walks away from the bed, and Juzo bolts upright when he sees her approaching his wardrobe.

“Kimura was running late, thankfully. She let us in,” says Chisa and resolutely shoves her hand into the middle shelf. Juzo sighs in relief that she didn’t pick another one where she could bump into something inappropriate.

“I think nothing bad will happen if Tengan-san waits for us just a little more,” he shrugs, catching a roll of clothes before it hits his face. “Why are you so nervous?”

Chisa turns to him, her eyebrows knitting together.

“I don’t know, but I didn’t like Tengan-san’s tone when he called me. He sounded somewhat disinterested, but at the same time, I don’t know... sly?”

“Doesn’t he always sound sly,” snorts Juzo, rising from the bed. He heads towards the door and holds his arm out to push it, but it opens before he can touch. Dropping his carry at the sudden impact, Juzo stares at Munakata who raises his hands in apology.

“Good morning.” Munakata greets him. Simultaneously, they bend towards the floor to pick up the clothes, and their foreheads bump. Both let out pained moans, and behind Juzo’s back Chisa bursts into laughter.

“Sorry.” Juzo mutters to the side so that Munakata doesn’t sense his morning breath. Rubbing the affected spot, Munakata avoids looking at him.

“It’s okay,” he says, handing back the clothes. “Hurry up, though.”

In the bathroom, Juzo furiously brushes his teeth, lost in embarrassment and swirling thoughts. As much as this encounter was comical and clichéd, he and Munakata were so close he could easily... No, he would not, never. But what if Chisa wasn’t in his room?

Juzo glares angrily at his reflection: it’s been a week since Munakata proposed changes in his lyrics, and he’s hardly slept, polishing the text and editing it over and over again. The bags below his eyes are so big that no eyeliner can cover them up.

If only Chisa wasn’t in the room, he’d grab Munakata by the collar and crush their lips together – oh no, but his bad breath!.. no, screw the bad breath, it’s a terrible idea to begin with. He should stop thinking about it once and for all.

On their way to Tengan’s office, they sit silently in Munakata’s car: Chisa by his side on the front seat and Juzo alone in the rear. Still barely awake and fatigued after having slept for mere three hours, Juzo sullenly peers at the grey scenery through the window.

The concert where he will perform _Lily Blight Limbo_ for the first time is scheduled on the day after tomorrow, and it’s been a while since he ceased assuring himself that he isn’t nervous. He’s not just nervous – he’s tremendously nervous and insecure, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with the lyrics: the lyrics are fine, he’s worked them up if not to perfection then to the closest of what he wants to express in a poetic form.

Getting out of the car, he clasps a cigarette between his teeth under Chisa’s reproachful glare.

“We’re already late, can you smoke some other time?”

Juzo shakes his head slowly.

“I am about to sing, you know. It’s my first time, and I’m kinda scared.”

“You’ll do alright,” Munakata says blankly, passing them by on his way to the entrance.

Chisa follows him with a look before turning back to Juzo. She tugs at his sleeve.

“You can go,” he nods at the door.

“No,” she pouts. “Come on, why are you so worried? It’ll be fine! After all, you’re presenting exactly what Tengan-san asked for.”

If only it was exactly what he asked for, Juzo retorts inwardly and crashes the half-spent cigarette in the ashtray. At first, it might’ve been the love song Tengan-san was aiming for, but eventually it became something sinister, something even Juzo himself isn’t sure he can perform in front of a roaring ocean of spectators.

They take an elevator. Chisa taps her foot impatiently. Juzo folds and unfolds his fists inside his coat pockets. As they emerge on the right floor, they hear loud chatter coming from across the hall, permeating from Tengan’s office.

“This is odd,” frowns Chisa.

“Hm?”

“The voice is female. I mean, Kyosuke can imitate female voices, but why would he do that now? There must be someone else.”

Juzo’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but he grips the door handle without knocking: they were invited for the time, so whatever girls Tengan might be having over, it doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

What he sees inside makes his eyes widen, and Chisa halts next to him with her jaw dropped. Tengan is leaning to his desk, grinning smugly; a nondiscriptive young man and a girl with long lavender hair are standing by his sides. But what strikes Juzo most is not them – it's another person, a girl in a ludicrously short plated skirt and with enormous pigtails. She’s clinging to Munakata like her life depends on it, and Munakata’s expression is beyond Juzo’s reach because his back is turned to the door. His hands, however, are thrown in the air, conveying utter distress.

For a split second, the girl shoots her eyes up to Juzo, and he martially glares back at her hostility. But then she abruptly releases Munakata and rushes to him instead. His mouth goes agape as she throws her arms around him, squalling and hollering.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” her high-pitched voice chants into his ear as he tries to push her away to no avail. “I’m so glad to meet you, Sakakura-chan!”

“You should stop, Enoshima-san,” says the nondiscriptive guy. “It’s not polite to throw yourself at people like this.”

And as easily as she has assaulted him, said Enoshima releases Juzo from her steel hold, saluting the guy with a wide smirk on her face.

They settle on the couches, and Juzo exchanges puzzled glances with Great Gozu and Munakata who’re sitting on the opposite of him with the unknown guy and the lavender-haired girl; Munakata’s face looks stern and disturbed. Juzo tenses as he feels an arm wedging around his own – the Enoshima girl sits by his side, innocently making eyes at him. By his other side, Chisa snorts.

“So, since everyone’s here,” starts Tengan, clasping his hands together. “Futuremore, I’m ready to present you your supporting act for the concert. Please meet: Kyoko Kirigiri–” the lavender-haired girl nods frigidly, “Makoto Naegi–” the nondescriptive guy waves his hand awkwardly, “and Junko Enoshima,” Juzo feels an atrocious squeeze around his arm. “These three, along with my nephew Ryota, who is unfortunately sick today, form a new band I’m managing – The Remnants of Despair.”

Feeling pressure on his free arm, Juzo glances at Chisa: her crescent-like scowl speaks for itself.

“This of course doesn’t mean that I’m abandoning Futuremore, no,” continues Tengan. “But as a little advertising campaign for both bands, I decided to set The Remnants for an opening performance with their first single. Basically,” he glances about the room, mysteriously meeting everyone’s eyes, “I am announcing this as a fact. There’s nothing extra required of you.”

A swift motion from the side makes Juzo turn his head: Munakata has risen to his feet, face firm.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he says coldly. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

As Munakata leaves the room in broad steps, Chisa worries Juzo’s knee, and he turns to her: her cheeks are red, and her big round eyes are glistening with faint tears. Silently, he makes faces for her to follow Munakata; silently, she shakes her head, and silently, Juzo pats her on the back and forces her up.

“Excuse me, Tengan-san,” she mumbles and runs out of the room. Great Gozu, with his arms crossed on his chest, peers at Juzo with a disconsolate look. 

Tengan takes his time to talk more about the upcoming concert, focusing on Futuremore's performance.

“Sakakura-kun, is your song ready?”

“Yes, sir,” grunts Juzo. “Both music and lyrics. We rehearsed, too.”

“Good, my boy,” nods Tengan. “Give me the lyrics, I’ll have a look.”

And as Juzo gives him a printed copy, Tengan briefly skims through it, looking over the top of his glasses. Not two minutes pass before he sets it aside and nods.

“Very good,” he comments contently. “Unrequited love surely brings more impact and emotion. Very good, indeed.”

Frowning, Juzo frees his arm from Enoshima’s weakened hold and gets up.

“I’ll go get Munakata and Yukizome back,” he says. “We’ll rehearse it for you.”

“Oh, no need, no need,” Tengan shakes his head with a smile.

“No need?” Gozu stirs in his seat. “Isn’t it why we’re all here? And the concert is in a day!”

“My dear boy,” says Tengan blandly, “I believe that even if I did have any suggestions for you, they would only ruin the dew of the experiment. And I have enough faith in Sakakura-kun. This particular song needs raw performance.”

“But we’ve already–” starts Gozu and cuts himself off.

Having no patience to stay in the office, Juzo rushes out to the hall and runs to the bathroom.

He stops in the doorway and sees Munakata propping his fist to the tiled wall while Chisa rubs his back and talks to him fast and soothing. Juzo coughs and approaches them, and when Munakata turns to face him, there’s raging fury in his eyes.

“Have you heard that nonsense, Sakakura?” he growls, spiteful. “His nephew! Of course Tengan wouldn’t care about us when the deal is all about his relative!”

In a fit of temper, Munakata fiercely kicks a trash bin and spits on the floor beside it. Juzo reaches his hand out to grasp his shoulder, but Munakata sharply slaps it away. Juzo’s mouth opens in astonishment, his chest shrinking and tightening, throat going dry.

“Kyosuke!” Chisa grabs his arm, her voice furious. “What the hell are you doing, apologize!”

Inhaling deeply, Munakata lets his head fall. He stands still, arms by his sides, shoulders slouching, and suddenly emits a broken chuckle.

“I just... It’s...”

He blindly leans forward. Juzo’s heart sinks to his toes as he feels an arm wrapping gently around his neck, and Chisa presses to him warmly from the side, hugged with Munakata’s other arm. Exhaling a breath he’s been holding, Juzo lays his hand onto Munakata’s head and softly strokes his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Munakata whispers, trembling.

“It’s alright, Kyosuke,” murmurs Chisa and places a kiss on his cheekbone.

“Don’t worry,” says Juzo quietly, aware of Munakata’s heartbeat almost palpable against him. “We will all do our best. I will do my best for you.”

“Thank you,” sighs Munakata, leaning back.

For a moment, their eyes lock, and Juzo fights the urge to kiss him senseless, or to drop on one knee and grab his hand, tracing his knuckles with chaste kisses. His heart is about to jump out of his throat, head light and spinning, and he is especially grateful to Chisa who wraps her arms around Munakata’s neck and steals his too intensive look.

When Chisa walks Munakata out, Juzo stays to wash his burning face. Reproachfully, he notices how hard his hands are shaking and splashes more water on his face, disappointed and angry with himself.

“My, my, Sakakura-chan.”

He spins around at the voice and narrows his eyes when he sees Enoshima leaning laidback to the doorframe. On her thin red-painted lips plays a grin that gives Juzo creeps.

“What do you want,” he asks apprehensively.

“Oh, nothing really,” giggles Enoshima, effortlessly heading to him in a zig-zag pattern. Her stilettos knock loudly against the floor. “This was quite an endearing scene to watch.”

“Get lost,” Juzo hisses, driving his legs wider apart – an instinct he hasn’t got rid of since his boxer club days. 

“Ah, why so rude?” wonders Enoshima, drawing up with him. Her big eyes narrow with eerie chillness. “Not very appropriate for a boy who’s sworn to do his best.”

Gritting his teeth, Juzo straightens and glares at her.

“It’s none of your business,” he says angrily. “If you came here to make fun of me, you can fuck off right now.”

Chuckling, Enoshima covers her mouth with her hand, but her eyes wickedly stare into his.

“I saw your lyrics,” she says slyly. “Adorable. I’ve always been your fan but I had no idea you were balls deep into him. Magazines are so wrong, if only they knew.”

“Huh?”

Cold sweat breaks on Juzo’s forehead, and he can’t help stepping back. His loins bump into the edge of the sink.

“Third leg, aren’t you, Sakakura-chan?” Enoshima smirks. “Having a crush on your male friend who has a girlfriend must be so painful.”

Juzo’s courage thins out, and he catches air with his mouth like a fish dragged to the shore.

“Bullshit,” he forces and realizes how fake he’s sounding. “Quit messing with me.”

Laughing humorlessly, Enoshima encircles him and clutches his shoulder; Juzo tries to shake her off, but the hold is surprisingly strong.

“Don’t worry, your little secret is safe with me,” she says amicably, but all the same Juzo’s blood freezes in his veins at her hideous undertones. “Well, unless you do something naughty. But you’re a good boy, so you won’t, right?”

“What the hell do you mean?” he hisses through clenched teeth.

And, with a ghastly low voice and piercingly ominous stare, not a trace of a smile left, Enoshima utters:

“Don’t you dare outshine my performance on Sunday. If you do, not only will I turn your life into hell, but your precious friends’ lives, too.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” laughs Juzo, clasping a cup of hot cocoa in his hands.

Kimura, still in pajamas, with her chapped lips open to the view, gnaws at her thumbnail pensively. Her eyes are focused on the empty spot in front of her.

“It’s odd,” she concludes, darting her look at Juzo across the table. “She hadn’t known you for a day and somehow she noticed.”

“Fans are weird people,” shrugs Juzo, taking a toast and smearing strawberry jam onto it. “And it’s not like she can prove anything. She’s just a stranger.”

“Yeah, weird indeed,” sighs Kimura, picking up a fork and stabbing her sunny side up. “But more importantly, shouldn’t you be in a hurry?”

It’s Sunday morning and the concert is impending, although Juzo doesn’t feel anxious about it. He spent the whole previous day sleeping, for once dreamlessly, and his confidence was revived after he talked to Munakata and Chisa this morning.

“I really like this song,” said Munakata. “When I write, I try to pour my entire soul into lyrics, and I can see you’ve done the same.”

“Come on,” chuckled Juzo. “It wasn’t that hard; you work much harder. And thank you for the corrections.”

“I’m afraid I was too harsh back then.” Munakata’s voice lowered, and his sincerity tenderly clutched and squeezed Juzo’s heart. “I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s okay; it was a great help. And don’t you worry, I’ll do my best!”

“I don’t expect less from you, Sakakura,” said Munakata with an audible grin. “But seriously, thank you. You’ve been the best friend a man can wish for.”

Greatly heartened, Juzo felt unstoppable and powerful. Not a single Enoshima and her nonsense could discourage him now. In high spirits, he dialed Chisa.

“I don’t care about The Remnants at all,” she clicked her tongue. “I know that we’re the best; you and Kyosuke and Gozu, we can do it together!”

“No doubt about this,” Juzo smiled at the phone.

And so, Juzo stuffs his face excitedly as Kimura watches him with a faint frown. She looks a little tired, bags below her eyes a bit darker than usual.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks around a mouthful of toast.

“Ah, well...” She sounds reluctant and avoids his eyes. “Not really, but don’t worry about me for now.”

Still munching, Juzo narrows his eyes at her. 

“Did something happen again?”

Kimura braces herself as if she’s about to shake her head, but only fixes wide open eyes on Juzo. He peers back at her, waiting.

“No,” she says somewhat helplessly and draws up her feet, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Really, you should focus on the concert.”

But Juzo can already hear faint tears in her faltering voice and, for the warm cushion of hope and comfort is blooming in his chest, he gently seizes her hand. A little startled, Kimura looks up at him, and her distress smoothens.

“It’s gonna be alright,” says Juzo with certainty, and Kimura nods to him.

When he leaves – got to be several hours early to rehearse and dress up – Kimura’s face is still thoughtful, but she flashes him a smile.

As Juzo hops down the stairs and steps into the inner parking lot, his attention is arrested by a familiar silhouette half-hidden beside a column.

Ceasing his pace, hands balling into fists, Juzo straightens and emotionlessly peers into the darkness.

“Show yourself,” he utters loudly.

Shifting beside the column makes him tense in pre-battle fever, but against his expectations the one hiding there doesn’t jump at him and quietly comes out. Seeing his face, Juzo lets out a sigh – not of relief, not of annoyance, but he definitely doesn’t feel like wrestling anymore.

“Came to bully Kimura again?” asks Juzo curtly.

Izayoi approaches him in silence. His arms are glued to his sides, but he carries himself with subtle grace, and while his eyes are cold and narrowed, there's no hostile vibe in them.

“You’re Sakakura, right?” asks Izayoi, and Juzo notes that his voice sounds rather different from the previous – and the only – time he heard it. It was apathetic then, frigid almost, and now it’s troubled.

“I am, what do you care?” Juzo raises his chin.

“I came to talk with _you_.”

Confused, he drops the belligerence and peers into Izayoi's seemingly indifferent eyes: they're tight-laced with red web, irises quivering.

Without asking, Juzo grasps his shoulder – it feels tense, but the lingering eye-contact doesn’t suggest antagonism, and Izayoi weakly gestures behind Juzo’s back with a nod.

They walk outside together, neither speaking, both keeping hands in their pockets. When they reach the exit and in a silent agreement stroll to the nearest bench, Juzo is already preparing answers for the figured questions.

They sit down on the opposite ends of the bench, and Juzo takes out two smokes, offering one to Izayoi. The other shakes his head.

“So,” Izayoi utters in a low wheeze and clears his throat. “You and Kimura are–”

“Close friends,” answers Juzo, looking ahead.

“I guessed so. Ruruka thinks different.”

“She told you about..?” Juzo casts his eyes at Izayoi, hesitating. Without looking at him, Izayoi nods.

“It’s not like I didn’t suspect anything,” he mutters. His shoulders slouch, hands clasped together in his lap. “But Ruruka is everything to me. I don’t mind.”

Dazed, Juzo drops his cigarette and turns to Izayoi with his mouth agape.

“But, like,” he clicks his tongue, sighs, splashes his hands. Izayoi doesn’t move a muscle. “Isn’t it a bit, fuck no, very wrong?”

“To love someone and not to ask for anything in return? I don’t think so.” Izayoi’s voice, even though monotonous, cracks with a strain. “I want Ruruka’s happiness most of all. She’s the kind of person who, indeed, doesn’t look back at others and won’t give up that easily. Once she’s decided something, she won’t rest until the deed is done.”

And now Juzo feels sheer irritation reverberating against his skull. Springing to his feet, he grabs Izayoi’s collar, shaking him. Izayoi winces.

“Wake up, man!” Juzo shouts in his face. “Your girlfriend cheated on you! And not only cheated, she dragged Kimura into this! You don’t know Kimura well, but she isn’t the type who would selfishly steal her from you; she doesn’t even think you’ve ever considered her a friend and yet she was concerned not about Ruruka, but about you! Why are you like this, why?”

Juzo shakes him in a steady grip, and Izayoi shrinks: his face lowers, shoulders droop even more, but a resolute hand seizes Juzo’s knuckles with pained vigor.

“I know that Kimura is a good person,” he murmurs, voice edging. With a grunt, Juzo releases him from the hold and abruptly turns; he kicks a trash bin beside the bench, swearing.

“I don’t want to stand between them,” continues Izayoi, “I don’t want to be a hindrance to Ruruka. She’s always been so sweet to me and I love her dearly, but if I can’t make her love me–”

A strangling sob breaks from his throat, and he swiftly hides his face under the back of his hand. Juzo, hovering above him, feels his heart ripping into pieces. Again, over and over again; same situation, different people, but everything repeats like in a vicious circle.

“Izayoi,” he says quietly, placing his hand on the guy’s trembling shoulder. “I know what you mean. I know this shit way too well, but listen here. You won’t fix things with tears or silence; I know how hard it is to act, but in this case, you _have_ to act. Talk with Kimura first, I’m sure she won't repel. And then you both need to talk with Ruruka. Sorry for being harsh, but she’s come too fucking far, she’s been playing with your feelings, and this is just wrong. Both you and Kimura deserve to know the truth.”

The trembling fades away slowly. A notion that maybe, sometime in a previous life they could’ve been friends, comes to Juzo’s mind. Lifting up his head, Izayoi smiles faintly at him, and he cracks a smile back, firmly patting his back.

“Sorry for this mess,” sneers Izayoi humorlessly. “I didn’t mean to be so... eh, pathetic.”

“It’s okay to be pathetic once in a while,” assures Juzo. A haphazard glance to his watch makes him flinch: he promised everyone to be the first to arrive.

“Hurrying somewhere?” asks Izayoi, rising from the bench.

“Yeah, I think I have to go,” says Juzo, starting off. “Kimura is at home, by the way.”

“If you’re in a hurry, I can give you a ride,” Izayoi suggests, his face back to its blank seriousness. “After all, it was me who impeded you.”

 

**~***~**

 

The ride on Izayoi’s roaring Harley makes Juzo forget to breathe in the icy air that harshly brushes against his face. A smudged image of the city sweeps in front of his eyes; the noise of the bike sounds to him like a battle cry. From the pit of his stomach rises a wave of treacherous agitation that Juzo attempts to kill off by inquiring Izayoi about his exceptional vehicle, but Izayoi only keeps checking back, for the wind is too strong against their ears.

Swiftly, they stop near the front of the concert hall: Juzo can already see a moderate crowd of fans gathering at the main entrance and being silently neglected by sullen security.

“Drive around to the backstage entry,” he asks.

And as Izayoi drives him to a shabby metal door designed to be narrow and unobtrusive for the fans not to spot it, Juzo jumps off the bike and removes the helmet, handing it to the driver.

“You can stay if you want,” he offers with a humble gesture of his hand.

Izayoi peers at him inexpressively, but his eyes show some consideration.

“Are the tickets pricey?” he asks.

“We can let you in through the backstage,” explains Juzo. “Kimura will come, too.” Comprehending the implications of the development, Juzo decides to be blunt: “Right, that’s none of my business. But my offer is valid regardless.”

Crossing his arms on the handlebar, Izayoi peers into space in front of him and then cracks a barely-there grin at Juzo.

“When does it start?”

“At six.”

Checking his watch, Izayoi nods.

“I’ll go pick Kimura up then,” he says, and a faint gleam of excitement emerges in his dull eyes.

After a brief hand shake, Izayoi starts off, and Juzo jerks open the door, hurrying to the backstage.

He isn’t particularly late, but the room is already crowded and filled with rumble. As Juzo steps in, Chisa and Great Gozu instantly run to him and, vying with each other, interrogate him.

“You’re half an hour late! Why’s your phone turned off?”

“Geez, I thought we were screwed!”

“Sakakura, you don’t make everyone worried on a day like this!”

“Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“Your first performance in the lead! God!”

Gently shaking off Gozu’s firm hand from his shoulder, Juzo sighs and looks over their heads: by mischance, The Remnants are sharing the backstage with them, as for he can see Kirigiri and Naegi sitting by the brightly lit mirror. A short guy with fair hair is fussing about them.

“Who’s he?” Juzo asks in whisper, contemptuously pointing at the boy in question.

“Ryota Mitarai, Tengan’s nephew,” Chisa replies quietly. “He seems nice though, but a scaredy-cat. Please, go easy on him.”

In Juzo’s book, going easy means only no punching, and as he heavily pats Mitarai’s back, the boy shrinks and lets out a high-pitched cry.

“Just thought I’d say hi,” smirks Juzo to his chalk-pale face. “Are you an actual band member or a maid?”

“I kindly ask you to quit this rudeness,” frigidly utters Kirigiri, not tearing her eyes from the mirror as she wings her eyeliner with an extremely precise movement. Such a steady hand could cut throats, thinks Juzo, amused, and gives her a warm smile.

“Didn’t mean to,” he stretches, trying to look laid-back and content. “I’ve no idea what you guys play.”

“I’m on the bass, Mitarai’s on the drums, Naegi’s on the guitar,” she explains, not paying a single glance to him. “Our lead singer, Enoshima-san, seems to be late.”

“Gosh, so does ours!” interrupts Chisa, but her mouth goes agape mid-sentence. “I mean, our usual lead singer,” she adds, blushing and escaping Juzo’s a little stern look.

“I know about the change,” proceeds Kirigiri.

She’s sitting almost uncannily upright, only her hands work around, applying make up and entangling in her long hair. Even though Enoshima is on the lead, it seems to Juzo that Kirigiri is the real pacer of The Remnants; so cool and professional she carries herself.

On this account, Juzo is especially surprised when she turns to him and, staring into his eyes, calmly states:

“I wish you best of luck, Sakakura.”

He nods to her, folding his arms on his chest. Luck, huh? Of all things, Juzo prefers to rely on effort, not some aleatory juncture. He’s done his job in supporting his band, he’s self-made the lyrics he's going to perform in no time, so Kirigiri’s spontaneous regard throws him for a loop.

Does he have anything to rely on except the far-fetched luck now?

Juzo is not the lead singer, and Chisa’s haphazard slip has only hardened the notion that he isn’t perceived as one by Futuremore, no matter how supportive they might seem. They can say kind and cheerful words, boost his self-esteem for the sake of overall performance, but not for him as a musician. And for what Juzo cares, his position doesn’t bother him at all. What bothers him most is this single chance to be himself. In this, he is entirely alone.

He wipes cold sweat off his forehead as Chisa gestures him with a make up brush; he stares at her and sees a perfunctory smile plastered to her face. Around them the fuss thickens; in the distance of just a few meters that to Juzo seem as spacious as an entire football field, opens the backstage door.

He closes his eyes for Chisa to apply paint and powder onto his face, and the voices reach him muffled and distorted: a high, shrilling one – female; a low tenor with a hint of tension – male. There is a usual, yet every time brand new, prick to Juzo’s heart as he unwillingly recognizes the latter as Munakata’s. It comes closer; there’s a small sound of a brief kiss, a monotonous whisper, and Chisa’s hand ceases against Juzo’s face.

In the pit of his stomach, a small fire ignites, scorching the walls with nocuous touch of jealousy.

“Enoshima is here,” says Munakata as Juzo cracks his eyes open and blindly stares at him. Something in Munakata’s posture indicates alertness and a treacherous graze of neurosis. He turns wholly to Juzo: his fair eyes are obscured with disturbance.

“We’d better rehearse before them,” Munakata utters, glancing at Chisa and back at Juzo.

“I don’t need a vocal rehearsal, I think,” says Juzo, locking his gaze with Munakata’s earnest eyes. “Tengan-san said it better for my song to be performed raw. Let’s run the instrumentals.”

Munakata’s brow rises, but he doesn’t show any sign of objection: Juzo is lowkey grateful for this lack of inquires. For that his reluctance to rehearse the vocals isn’t limited to Tengan’s advice.

But after a few tentative shots in the empty concert hall, Juzo doesn’t feel more confident. Sure thing, he knows the bass section inside and out, but interconnection with the others sounds forced to him. Munakata, though, seems quite content with it, and Futuremore give way to The Remnants of Despair.

“Here, have this.” Munakata throws a package wrapped in grey paper to him as Juzo sits besides Gozu with a blank look. Laboriously he unwraps it and takes out something that vaguely resembles a bundle of leather belts.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning the object in his hands.

“A baldric,” answers Munakata, focused on his own reflection in the mirror and fixing his hair. “Wear it on top of your tee. I thought it a nice costume for you.”

“Thanks,” says Juzo with an uncertain smile.

As he stands up and tries on the weird construction, it tightens around his chest so firmly that he can barely breathe. Grunting quietly, he tries to loosen the belts but they don’t give in, and the more he moves, the tighter they embrace him. Panting, Juzo feels his face getting hot and steamy, almost as if he were being throttled.

He sits back on the leather couch and breathes deeper. His head spins, and he catches himself on the thought that the pressure on his pectorals feels oddly nice.

This peculiar arousal mixes with anxiety of the madly racing heart, the noise of Enoshima’s voice somewhere on the background, the view of Munakata stroking Chisa’s hair as she happily smiles at him: everything falls into place in an odd and eerie way.

The flow of Juzo’s mental images change one another so quickly that he stops noticing people fussing around him; he doesn’t notice when The Remnants return, who talks with whom and about what; doesn't notice when Izayoi and Kimura sneak through the room and wish him good luck. As if wasted, Juzo stares at the walls of his own eyelids, where maroon pulsation alternates with deep darkness.

How has everything come to the sole idea of him speaking up his feelings? How have these feelings morphed from pure intentions and maudlin sorrow to the harsh, self-indulgent agony? How come he throws his eyes open to stare at Munakata who sits across the room with Chisa in his lap, and yearns to be Chisa right now? How is it possible at all that in this significant moment Juzo is overfilled with venomous grief; and to the echo of Izayoi’s words in his mind –  _It’s not wrong to love someone and not to ask for anything in return_ – he wants to violently scream: _Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_

Juzo doesn’t hear a bit of The Remnants’ performance and, when Chisa’s hand lands gently on his arm, starts and glares at her.

“Here we come,” she says quietly, her face painted in concern. “Good luck.”

 _I don’t need luck,_ Juzo doesn’t reply to her.

On his numb feet, he drags himself onto the stage that is submerged in green light. The fog crawls above the floor, the fog crawls in front of his eyes. The concert hall is empty, so is the stage, and he stands there alone, staring into blank, dark space in front of him. His hands grip the bass, and very distantly, somewhere on another planet, drums begin.

In the entire universe, Juzo is alone with his own perpetual misery. It burns him, squeezes his naked heart, drains tears from his hollow eyes. The microphone stand appears in this empty field, and Juzo cups it as gently as if it were his first-born.

His mouth opens. His chest, swelling and lacerated, heavy with suppressed passion and tremendous affliction, rises at his aspiration – one of a wounded animal.

Munakata Kyosuke, the one and only for him, the one whose existence doesn’t belong in Juzo’s universe so he silently observes him from his distant orbital path; the one whose emersion has forever changed Juzo’s life, the one Juzo would undoubtedly die for – this song is for Munakata Kyosuke and nobody else. With that in mind, Juzo lets his voice flow.

 

_Making a sound._

_Your palms are dark._

_Swinging fire._

_Watching a lark._

_Lips flatter. Diffidence fall. You can’t escape. I can't enounce._

_Fingers trace across your neck. Tight or loose. Snap the spine._

_A mouthless scream. A scarless whine._

_If you were mine._

_If you were mine._

 

White noise in his ears stabilizes. He can hear his own voice, bizarrely exaggerated through the enormous speakers. Faintly Juzo catches Munakata’s husky voice echoing _If you were mine_ , and his ribs pierce the palpitating mass his heart has become. Fire takes him over, sends him on the verge where suffering meets longing, and he sings with raving vigor of someone who fights in a life and death battle.

 

_Make me choose. I am naive_

_My eyes are gouged. I burn in zest_

_Fear, leave._

_You are the saint. I am the fallen._

_The sacrifices have been made._

_Unseeing eyes fix on the floret_

_Viscous blight weeps. The castaway_

_Endorses you in sacrilege._

_Don’t make me choose. Strangle obstruction_

_If you were mine._

_Purify me. Commit abduction_

_If you were mine._

_Incandescence_

_Burn me alive_

_You are not mine._

_You are not mine._

 

His fingers slip from the bass. He pants. With the final chord, the audience bursts into a deafening roar, and suddenly Juzo sees them all: hundreds of people waving, hollering, screaming. His breath is low and wheezing; throwing his arms into the air, he mutters a ‘thank you’ that sounds alien and too charming through the speakers. The fans scream louder.

Juzo’s heart oozes with sheer emotion: it’s the height where his soul has left his body and blissfully returned, the lack of air in his lungs, the strangling on his throat – he wishes it were Munakata’s hands on him. The emptiness, the loneliness have evaporated, their place taken by that one massive and raw, pulsating and giant feeling. Finally, Juzo feels wholesome.

He has decided. His grin isn’t for the audience, but for himself. Juzo knows what he’s going to do.

Right now, he will turn around, approach Munakata and kiss him senselessly, in front of Futuremore, in front of the jubilant spectators. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t mind dying right after, if necessary.

Resolute, he turns his back to the audience, heartbeat intense and broken, and his smile drops.

Futuremore watch him in awe. Gozu won’t stop clapping, Chisa stares at him with astonishment and shows him a thumb up. And Munakata...

Munakata peers at him with a strange look Juzo has never witnessed before. There is definitely a strain of happiness in his face; he looks, more than anything, proud. But Juzo can’t overlook a tiny shade of something sharp and sombre in his eyes – what is it? He looks moved, as if the song has awoken a completely new emotion in him. It’s something very profound, and fragile; Munakata’s face is so pale, his posture is both prominent and weak as if he’s lost. The lights angle change, and suddenly Juzo clearly sees tears welling up in Munakata’s eyes.

No, Juzo absolutely cannot do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd struggled plenty with Juzo's song, hope you like it! The lyrics are based on the tune of _Entheogen _by _True Widow _.____  
>  Thank you for your continued support, everyone!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the 'questionable sexual intercourse' I've warned about in the tags, so proceed with caution

“Flip it back, Seiko!”

“Shush, it’s Futuremore’s new video! Sakakura, come here, you’re on TV!”

Juzo hurries to the living room and stops behind the couch where Kimura is sitting in between Ruruka and Izayoi, the two of them leaning to her. He peers at the screen with a content grin.

 _Lily Blight Limbo_ became a huge success, and for a whole month it’s been holding the top of all the local charts. The video that they shot merely a week ago was a smash hit as well.

Tengan’s idea for the video was to focus it on Juzo and Chisa – between the scenes of the whole band performing, they lay in dead leaves, half-naked, embracing each other. There were plenty of suggestive scenes, and even more gruesome ones, especially the one where Chisa strangles him. Oh how much Juzo wished things could be different, but he wasn’t in the position to argue.

“You know,” muses Izayoi, “your voice sounded somewhat different at the concert. It was, how to say... more sensual.”

“Live sound is always different from studio recordings,” says Juzo, not willing to explain the magic of that very first performance.

He managed to make Futuremore shine and that was enough for him, although he couldn’t reason by that when Tengan announced that their next album will be titled _Lily Blight Limbo_ and will have three more songs written and sung by Juzo. The idea of struggling over lyrics all over again, three times over, didn’t amuse him at the slightest. Juzo tried to alternate the decision with the rest of the band so they somehow could influence Tengan but the attempt ended up in nothing more than one song to be changed from Juzo’s solo to a duet with him and Munakata.

Which brings him even more trouble. One thing is Munakata’s humming along some lines – Juzo still shivers at the memory of his husky ‘If you were mine’ that echoed behind him that night. But working on a song together to later perform it together was a whole new world full of anxiety.

They haven’t started though: these days the band has been busier with interviews and photoshoots. The one from All Star magazine was particularly intense: there were bare torsos, latex and chains, and by pure luck one of the photographers wanted both Chisa and Munakata sitting in Juzo’s lap while Juzo had to sit in a furred chair with a bored expression. So far, it’s been Juzo’s most brilliant acting: Munakata was so hot pressing against him, his leather-covered thighs locked around Juzo's leg so firmly that he could barely hold his utter excitement. When the issue came out, Juzo bought it and wanked furiously to that picture three times overnight. The curve of Kyosuke’s spine and his scarce grin were too irresistible.

Today they are finally gathering for celebration of the album announcement. It’s going to be a grand party, with Tengan himself there. Even the forever slacking-off Gozu agreed to come. Juzo wanted to dress up for the occasion but all two of his suits seem to have become too tight, so he stands in the living room in unbuttoned shirt.

“Cover yourself, won’t you,” snorts Ruruka and walks past him to the kitchen. She’s still bitter towards Juzo, but he prefers not to bicker with her. He’s unable to wrap his head around how Kimura and Izayoi can tolerate her at all.   

Well, it’s not just tolerance they have for her. Busy as Juzo has been lately, the change in the trio's relationship had seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. But naturally, at the same time. Juzo wasn’t very surprised when a few days after the concert he found all three in their apartment. At first he assumed that they’d just come to some agreement, yet when he later witnessed a chaste kiss from Izayoi to Kimura, a simple realization struck him. Ruruka wanted to be with both Izayoi and Kimura, and Kimura and Izayoi wanted to be with her. It was this simple, even though alien to Juzo, but he could clearly see a peculiar fondness between Izayoi and Kimura as well. So, everything was fine if everybody was happy, wasn’t it?

With a sigh, Juzo attempts to close his shirt – one button comes out and falls to the floor with a metal clink. 

“Come on, shouldn’t you look good for your Kyosuke?” Kimura chuckles. Juzo narrows his eyes at her.

“Don’t get me started on my gaining weight again,” he grits through his teeth and holds onto her nape in a comic attempt to strangle her. Kimura laughs and he can’t help laughing back – it’s nice to finally see her out of sorrow.

Izayoi rubs his chin and looks him over.

“Does it have to be official? Because you look more attractive in destroyed jeans than trousers.”

With a raising brow, Kimura wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him in a theatrical distress.

“Ruruka!” she whines exaggeratedly. “Our Sonosuke is hitting on Sakakura!”

“I’m not,” sighs Izayoi, but gets instantly attacked from the swiftly appearing Ruruka.

Juzo rolls his eyes at the three jokingly fighting, then laughing and sitting back in front of the TV. This boisterous group has been a bit tiring. Not that he envies their light-heartedness... perhaps just a little bit.

Eventually he abandons the idea of wearing a fancy suit and puts on jeans with a t-shirt and a leather jacket – Izayoi is right, he feels more himself in scene style. Their gathering is appointed to a fancy restaurant, to where Juzo rides in a taxi, again daydreaming about a new roaring Harley. If things go well, he probably can afford one soon.

At the flashy entrance, he stops to have a smoke. The evening is quiet and placid; a few snowflakes are dancing in the still air. The golden lights emblazoned across the glass walls of the building give it a Christmassy vibe.

The front door opens and reveals a stunning beauty to his eyes: in a pink floor-length dress with rhinestone adornment, no other than Chisa walks out. She has unbraided her luscious hair that gorgeously cascades down her bare shoulders, and upon seeing him, she beams and holds up the hem. Smiling at her, Juzo offers her a hand.

“Now I wish I wore a suit,” he snorts. “You look like a princess.”

Chisa casts a melodramatically disappointed look at him. Her bright eyes flicker playfully; gracefulness shines through her candid posture. 

“I was afraid I overdid it,” she blushes slightly, but that faint modesty disappears as she roughly grabs his elbow and laughs. “I feel stupid now, to be honest.”  

“Don’t.” Juzo offers her his arm to hold onto.

They walk into the brilliantly shining hall; porters greet them, dozens of unknown folks who Juzo assumes are media workers surround them in awe, showering Chisa in compliments. Above the sea of heads Juzo glimpses Munakata.

He’s sitting at the piano, his long fingers dance about the keys with regal dignity. But even more magnificent than his stance is his deep voice unrolling through the hall. It sounds different from his usual desperate and anguished style. Now, it’s flowing like spring waters, soothing, delighting.

 

_Hold onto my hand_

_And never ever let me go_

_Let me see your smile_

_Your eyes reflect the sea below_

_Some other time, sun will rise_

_Some other time, you will kiss me_

_Lace the sky with dreams_

_And let me feel your blooming hope_

_Chiming in my heart_

_Will be your tender name alone_

_Some other time, stay with me_

_Some other time, please be real_

 

When he finishes and stands up with a light bow, the audience claps demurely. Everyone tries to sustain their awe, and Juzo snorts. He’d rather hear shrieking screams of their fans in dark venues than those constipated half-compliments that people exchange in whispers:

“What a stunning voice the young man has.”

“Oh, he does. Might’ve made a splendid opera singer.” 

With rolling eyes, Juzo elbows through the ostentatious crowd to Munakata and freezes as he sees his friend full length. Munakata is wearing a classy, crisp suit, white like the snow outside, clean like his reputation and conscience. Juzo’s heart sinks in frustration of his own carelessness in choice of clothes. From the other end, Gozu approaches them with glasses of champagne in both hands.

“Evening,” Juzo bows slightly to his friends.

“Good evening, Sakakura,” sneers Gozu. “Not the best outfit for the evening, huh?”

He himself is wearing a neat tuxedo, which makes Juzo grunt.  

Munakata smiles as Gozu hands him a glass and yet again disappears: there’s some young woman, a journalist, who wanted whatnot from him – in other words, a convenient excuse. “Don’t worry,” mutters Munakata. “When you’re a rock star, they don’t care if you don’t have a suit.”

Juzo emits an acid laugh.

“Look who’s talking.”

He gazes at Munakata’s serene face: in the brilliant lighting his eyes reflect champagne bubbles from his raised glass. Juzo’s heartbeat slows down and produces a strong thud, his vision obscuring with the rushed blood.  

“You look beautiful,” he says before his mind can process what he’s saying.

“Huh?”

“Very handsome,” Juzo corrects himself. “Such a nice-tailored suit. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“Oh,” Munakata brightens a bit, “I had it made specifically for the occasion. The fabric is really something, touch it.”

Juzo doesn’t need to be told twice. And indeed, the fabric feels pleasant as he rubs it between his fingers: soft but not too much, with solid roughness to its texture. A perfect combination for a man like Munakata.

To be fair, Juzo expected something more resembling their usual get-shitfaced-party, but everything is so pretentious that soon he becomes bored and drowns himself in liquor (which is sponsored thus unlimited). He’s not very keen on champagne, and since there are no cocktails or martinis, he gulps red wine.

Among the guests, he glimpses a familiar lilac head, and before he can remember who it belongs to, the owner heads straight to him – Kyoko Kirigiri from the once rivaling band, right it is.

“Hey,” Juzo raises his glass as she sits down beside him. She isn’t as pompously dressed as Chisa – just a smart skirt-suit with a blouse.

“Good evening.” She clinks her plain water glass against his graceful fluted one. “Having fun?”

“Not really. I’d rather go to a bar or get drunk in a venue.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on Kirigiri’s face, or maybe it just seemed to him. It’s a little hard to distinguish after five glasses.

“You have a great talent in singing,” says Kirigiri quietly. “In poetry as well. I’m not surprised your song got so popular.”

“Thanks,” Juzo feels his face flushing up and scratches his ear. “It’s nothing like a talent, though – just hard work. The talented one is Munakata.”

He nods at his beloved, encircled by a crowd, with Chisa beside him. Both of them look rich and happy, as if there’s fortunate future laying before them. Like a bride and a groom they are. Juzo sneers and gulps down his wine.

“I don’t think you aren’t talented,” says Kirigiri. Her face is blank, so is the voice. “I wish I could convey my feelings so well.”

“Everyone has a talent of their own, I guess,” he muses. The wine is making him hot under his shirt. “Real miracles happen when everyone does what they do best together.”

She nods silently. The silence around her is comforting, and after a couple of glasses more Juzo feels cozily drowsy. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, Kirigiri is gone. Munakata, Chisa and Gozu are walking to him: everyone looks a little flustered, Munakata has even eased his tie.

“Sakakura, why are you here all alone?” Chisa plops down next to him and snuggles close. Her cheeks burn as if she has been dancing.

“How about an afterparty somewhere else?” suggests Munakata. His usually pale face is heavily steamed, he’s wearing a crooked grin.

“Are you sure?” Gozu inquires – he looks the most sober of them.

“Well, why not,” shrugs Juzo.

“Where do we go then?” asks Chisa with a giggle.

“The Marginal?” offers Juzo.

“I don’t think we can go there dressed like this,” pouts Chisa. “Not me.”

She gestures at her luxury dress; it’s gone wrinkled and shifted here and there.

“My place then?” proposes Munakata. Now when Juzo is looking at him, he’s swaying lightly on the spot.

“Oh yeah,” says Chisa enthusiastically. “Good thing I’ve brought some change of clothes there.”

“So?”

Munakata peers questionably at Gozu and then at Juzo. He dries down his tenth glass, stands up and stretches out his arms.

“I’m always ready for some more drinks,” he smirks. It’s harder to stay on his feet than he imagined, though.

“I don’t mind joining for a couple more hours,” nods Gozu. Delighted at his long-awaited acceptance, Juzo strikes a firm pat to his back.

And so, after sneaking out of the restaurant so Tengan wouldn’t catch them on their way; and a joyful taxi ride where they sing to the driver’s voiceful happiness, and a way too long staircase, they stumble into Munakata’s apartment. While Chisa is changing, the three men are molesting the bar and mixing fearful potions with its contents.

Juzo is glad to have a daiquiri after all the overrated shit of a wine that was too dry to his taste, so he gulps on cocktails like water. Gozu sips on whiskey and Munakata takes shots of pure rum, then switches to vodka. Chisa joins them, wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of pink shorts.

“I couldn’t find my tee somewhat,” she giggles at Munakata’s red face and fiercely kisses him. “You don’t mind my borrowing yours?”

“Nah.”

Munakata hands her a glass of something suspiciously green and she merrily accepts it.

The chatter and laughter of the relaxed living room is more to Juzo’s liking than prudent chuckles of the pompous hall in the restaurant. Soon, he finds himself blasting the music and singing along; Munakata joins in with an empty rum bottle instead of a mic while Gozu’s playing with chopsticks on the glass table. Chisa laughs hysterically, pouring more drinks for them and for herself.

It’s close to midnight when Gozu stands up, unsteady on his feet.

“I gotta go,” he mutters, trying to force his way out to the corridor, but Chisa blocks his way.

“Come on!” she pouts playfully, placing her palms onto his broad shoulders. “You join us for once and you ‘gotta go’ so early?”

“Miaya will scold me if I’m late,” Gozu excuses himself, but it only makes Chisa more persistent and she clings to his chest, whining.

“She must be asleep already, come oooon!”

“Well, she always waits for me.” Gozu shakes his head.

After a series of fruitless attempts to change his mind, Chisa lets go.

“I can see you to the station,” Juzo suggests, standing up waveringly, but Chisa glares at him.

“Not you too! We still have so many drinks, why are you so boring, guys?”

“Yukizome,” Munakata laughs – his eyelids are heavy and eyes are blood-shot, but he keeps sipping on vodka regardless. “Let them be. You’re being overbearing.”

“Am I?” She stiffens, stalking toward him like a tiger lurking to its prey. Munakata shrinks into the couch and a fight commences – at first it’s light, nonthreatening punches, but then Chisa grabs a pillow and Munakata grabs her, and both end up laughing.

Juzo walks Gozu to the door, wishing him good night. He decides to stay for a couple more drinks, or maybe a dozen more. After all, his drowsiness is long since gone and he’s having a good time for once.

He returns into Munakata and Chisa raising their glasses and joins in, grabbing one with a milky drink.

“To our Future,” says Munakata with a smile.

They drink, and Chisa throws her arms around both of their necks, knocking their heads and laughing. They sing some more; Chisa forces them to dance – Juzo tries but his head is too light to go with the rhythm, so he soon gives up. When Chisa succeeds in getting Munakata up for a dance, he makes a mere move and trips, dragging her along. They end up half-lying on the couch, Chisa in Munakata’s lap, kissing a little too passionately.

Juzo dries down two glasses but they’re still in session; there are shallow groans growing more and more steamy. He shifts on the couch, reaching for a cigarette. Perhaps it’s time for him to go home.

But before he can stand up, his thought process is interrupted. He feels Chisa’s intense gaze on himself and can’t help meeting it. Without looking back, she whispers something to Munakata – now he’s looking at him too.

I shall go, Juzo wants to say, but Chisa is first to speak.

“Wanna join us?”

Slowly, his mind processes the question. It fails. Noticing his confusion, Chisa chuckles and grabs his arm.

“You’ve been staring so intently, I thought you wanted to join.”

Both of them shift closer to Juzo and he feels an arm hovering above his shoulders and the backrest.

“Nice joke,” he laughs, but it comes out unnatural. His whole body is tight and tense, heart racing fast, temples slick with sweat.

“I’m being serious.” Chisa peers at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes. Attempting to swallow, Juzo darts his look at Munakata – he must be the shrewd one – but he isn’t grinning for it to be a joke.

“So, do you want it? Or you don’t?” Chisa asks with persistence. Juzo can almost sense her breath on himself, her breast pressing to his elbow.

And so, Juzo doesn’t think. He doesn’t excuse himself mentally, doesn’t come up with reasons why he has to go; he quietly murmurs a ‘yes’, locking his eyes on Munakata’s. And a second later, he presumes to be dead, or in coma, or dreaming, except the dream is being too palpable and realistic.

Nimbly, Kyosuke tilts his neck and kisses him. His lips, not as soft as Juzo has imagined them, brush against his own, and Juzo doesn’t move, struck in awe. He senses Kyosuke’s spirited breath, sweet and deep, not daring to close his eyes – and suddenly a tongue lurks into his slightly parted mouth; the arch of it so saturated against his, touching and slipping and rubbing, that Juzo emits a gasp of tension, astonishment, passion, and disbelief. He’s numb with an overwhelming emotion, distressed of the sharp feeling in his pants, shocked so much that he can’t move. But Kyosuke does move; he kisses deeply and sensually, his hand coming to clasp Juzo’s stiff shoulder, the tiniest bristles rubbing against Juzo’s chin as Kyosuke opens his mouth wider. And with a violent throb of tenderness in his chest, Juzo surrenders.

He melts in that kiss, he allows himself to kiss back, but it ends as soon as it has started. Kyosuke draws back, and Juzo expects an awkward pause, some rebuking, some tarnation – yet none comes. Chisa kisses him, too – her mouth is tiny and smells fairly good, but it feels like he’s chewing a piece of paper. Juzo responds reluctantly. Everything comes with a price, doesn’t it?

When she parts, Juzo stares at her and feels small hands straddling his knees. With a wide grin, Chisa pushes him in the chest and he falls onto the couch, not daring to move.

It feels surreal. Four hands map his chest, his stomach, his legs, slowly roll up his shirt. A hot mouth presses to his neck, another one sucks on his pectoral. Holding his breath down is becoming harder.

Both Kyosuke and Chisa loom above him, and both kiss him. Such a weird and abrasive sensation of two tongues rubbing against his own makes Juzo dizzy. The one on his left feels playful and shallow. The one on his right is deep and relentless. After a moment of subtle hesitation, Juzo raises his left arm and wraps it around a lithe waist – by all means male.

Juzo presses Kyosuke closer to himself, rubbing his back, and ravens the kiss as Chisa snuggles beside them. Juzo is well-aware of a rock-solid bulge in his pants and restrains from grinding against Kyosuke’s thigh; the other’s hips start rocking flimsily and Juzo feels growing pressure against his hipbone. Something warm and round is touching his shoulder – he opens his eyes and sees Chisa clinging to him while she’s rubbing Kyosuke’s clothed rear.

He needs to take action, Juzo realizes. But Chisa needn’t know; she must stay unaware and not have a single clue of his true intentions. With that in mind, Juzo pats Kyosuke’s side – he’d do so more if he could, right now. But first, he’s ought to please Chisa. She mustn’t guess.

Kyosuke has moved, quickly unbuttoning his shirt and revealing his tight pectorals (Juzo is trying not to stare and look more or less disinterested). They all sit up; Chisa’s shirt is gone first, then comes Juzo’s, and Kyosuke is the last (his nipples are warm beige, although Juzo has always pictured them pale pink). And while Kyosuke is grabbing his belt buckle, Juzo is desperately trying to focus on fondling Chisa’s breasts and kissing her anywhere but mouth. He closes his eyes; just a few more minutes, and he can touch Kyosuke too, feel his skin with his tongue and caress him until–

Two gentle palms press to his back – Juzo emits a small groan of suddenness. Even more unexpectedly, they glide to the front and firmly clasp his chest, fingers pinching his nipples. Juzo jolts hard, and grits his teeth. One, three, five, seven, nine, eleven, thirteen, fifteen, Chisa’s tits against his hands, Chisa kissing his neck. He lets out a shaky sigh as his premature orgasm rolls back.

Kyosuke doesn’t linger too much on his pecs, but his hands stroking along Juzo’s sides, hipbones, and coming to unzip his pants, make him mentally drift away from Chisa’s emphatic caresses. She tries to kiss him in the lips again, and he almost turns away before he remembers that it’s not allowed. Kyosuke’s mouth soon will be on his, too, won’t it.

The aftertaste of Chisa makes his cock shrink a little, for which Juzo is grateful enough – he doesn’t need to edge if she keeps touching him. The rest of their clothes is dumped on the floor and Juzo casts a quick glance below as three of them stand up on their knees on the couch.

“I would’ve shaved if I knew, sorry,” says Kyosuke, his eyes shifty and face blushing. Glimpsing a brand new curve of his features depicting embarrassment, Juzo falls for him all over again and even harder than before. A little too gently, he leans against Kyosuke’s side and feels his beloved’s hand resting on the small of his back.

“It’s fine,” giggles Chisa, who’s pressing to Kyosuke’s other side, her hand lowering. “I forgot about it, too.”

She makes a move – Juzo doesn’t dare to watch closer yet – and Kyosuke’s brows twitch. His mouth splits in a gorgeous flexion, eyelids heave. Aroused with the view, Juzo embraces Kyosuke’s middle and vehemently sucks on his neck, listening to his rapid heartbeat and shallow breaths growing erratic. There’s a haphazard, quiet moan, but it alone makes Juzo overly hard again. He presses his hips tighter to Kyosuke’s thigh and produces a tentative buckle. There’s no response to it; Juzo feels the heat of Chisa’s hand working on Kyosuke’s cock close. They’re too sultry to pay attention.

But as his occasional bucks form into pace, he feels Kyosuke’s fingers firming on his back. Considering this an invitation, Juzo lets his hands travel and stroke here and there, trying to get more of Kyosuke’s body. Juzo squeezes his buttock and, perhaps it’s his imagination, but one of Kyosuke’s voiceless groans is a response to the touch.

Juzo leans back from him with vigor – it takes a little more than all of his willpower – but before he can do anything, Chisa’s dexterous hand is on his cock. A tiny bit of watery disgust brushes against his heart, depriving him of sensation down there. He peers at her from under his faint frown, although Chisa is too busy kissing Kyosuke.

He could back up if Chisa weren't jerking him off, but before he can think of how to break free, she releases him and gets on all fours. With wide eyes, Juzo watches Chisa taking Kyosuke’s cock into her mouth and slowly beginning to suck him off. A low moan makes his attention shift.

Kyosuke looks irresistible with his eyes closed and mouth gaping. His chest heaves and he puts his hand on top of Chisa’s head; and Juzo steals a deep kiss from him. Kyosuke’s tongue is lashing, lapping disorderly as he responds. Juzo closes his eyes – _what if I were the one on my knees_ – and sucks on Kyosuke’s tongue. His cock is twitching against empty air, and he feels Chisa’s hand tugging on his wrist.

“C’mere,” she murmurs and urges him down. Prepared to give her more kisses and laidback caresses, Juzo doesn’t expect her to force him lower by his neck.

Kyosuke’s cock, a little bigger than his own, is glistening with saliva and precome, hard and alluring right in front of his face. Chisa licks it from the shaft to the tip. Juzo gulps and presses his lips to the other side.

Although his and Chisa’s tongues brush occasionally, Juzo tries to focus on the hot flesh throbbing against his mouth. He laps on it gently and covers it with wet kisses.

It doesn’t take long before Chisa rises and clings to Kyosuke, and Juzo takes Kyosuke’s cock wholly into his mouth.

The taste of it fills him; it’s hard and pliant, and Juzo can’t help dipping it deeper. It comes in and out, and Kyosuke’s groans harden above him. He can hear a wet popping sound and opens an eye to peep: Kyosuke’s finger is working in and out Chisa’s oozing slit right in front of him. He closes his eye, immersing into the filling sensation.

Juzo bobs his head, feeling the quivering of solid flesh inside; not just _some_ flesh but his beloved’s. Kyosuke’s thighs start moving; at first shallowly, then with more passion until he’s thrusting his cock into Juzo’s watering mouth. The taste intensifies with these thrusts; if only Kyosuke would come into his mouth, halting and moaning – Juzo can’t wish for more. He’s one pump close to his own release, but that can wait. His whole being is focused on Kyosuke; his heat, his voice growing louder, his sharp movements, his pleasure. Kyosuke’s hand comes to stroke his hair and Juzo’s heart swells with raw tenderness. How fortunate he is to have his mouth busy so not to blurt something reckless.

But Kyosuke doesn’t stroke him – he grips his hair and, abruptly for the dazed Juzo, throws him with his back to the couch. Juzo stares into his face but can’t catch his expression before Kyosuke’s thighs clutch his head, cock plunging rapidly into his mouth. Overwhelmed with the speed, Juzo forgets to breathe, the suffocation makes him dizzy, tears well in the corners of his eyes. The friction is so wholesome, so intense; Kyosuke’s groans so erotic and wild that Juzo’s nostrils flare in upcoming orgasm. Below, small fingers wrap around his shaft and break him; in attempt to hold down the convulsion he accidentally bites Kyosuke. But Kyosuke doesn’t notice – he’s shivering and quickly withdrawing his cock, but it’s a little too late: his come drips on Juzo's lips, his chin, his neck, a bit drops into his parted mouth.

Kyosuke gets off him and shakily falls with his face to a pillow. Panting, Juzo meets Chisa’s gaze. She’s wiping her hand with a tissue. There’s blatant disappointment in her eyes.

Juzo gathers his clothes and makes a bee-line to the bathroom. He sits on the toilet and lowers his face into his palms; they touch sticky come and he quickly grabs a towel to clean. His hands tremble.

Was that what he wanted?

He doesn’t want to reflect upon what has just happened. The crippling fear slowly climbs back and makes his shoulders heavy. Damn it, he can still taste Munakata’s cock and come in his mouth.

Juzo didn’t expect the price to be so high. Not only had he have to touch and kiss Chisa and share Munakata with her; he doubts Munakata liked it at all with him. He didn’t touch Juzo; he did like the friction he provided like any other man would. As well as Juzo was thinking of Munakata while touching Chisa, Munakata could’ve been thinking of Chisa while Juzo was giving him  head, even when Munakata sat on him and fucked his face. It would be a blatant lie if Juzo said he didn’t enjoy it, but the weight of guilt is growing in exponential increase.

He can simply run away. There are no meetings tomorrow, nor the day after; given that both Munakata and Chisa were dead drunk, they might not remember what happened in detail some three days after. In retrospective, it won’t seem so grave: they just got drunk and had a little threesome. It was fun. Nobody was hurt. Juzo has been lying for so many years, how come he can’t lie one more time?

He dashes out of the bathroom and startles: Chisa is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed on her partially covered with Munakata’s shirt chest.

“Sakakura,” she utters very quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

He puts his hands into pockets, trying to sustain a relaxed stance.

“Yes, what is it?”

Chisa’s eyes dart anywhere but him. She takes a deep breath. Juzo draws his hand out and touches her shoulder with as much gentleness as he can manage. She scowls.

“I’m sorry that, eh... things didn’t go like you might’ve wanted,” says Juzo with a forced smile. “We all were a little tired and not very sober.”

“That’s not it.” She shakes her head. Her fingers grasp his hand and move it away. “There’s something I need to tell you. Remember the first day when we were shooting _Lily Blight Limbo_ video?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. It took so long, and since I didn't get to do much I was really bored. I took a walk around the office and stumbled into that girl from The Remnants – Enoshima. She said she was going to have some coffee and invited me to tag along, which I did. She was very friendly; she seems to be a big fan of ours. But then, when we were about to return, she asked me a very strange question. She asked me, well... whether I knew about you and Kyosuke. I was surprised by that and asked what she meant. She told me that there had been a rumor that you’ve been in love with Kyosuke for many years. I just snorted and said it wasn’t possible, that you have a girlfriend and, well, Kyosuke dates _me_. But Enoshima only smirked. She said I was being mistaken.”

She takes a long, drawn inhale.

“Of course, I didn’t believe that nonsense and forgot it for some time. Then, some two weeks ago maybe, I saw Kimura in a park – she was having a walk with a girl and a guy, I didn’t know them, but, how do I put it... They seemed to be very close and, well... She kissed with both of them. They held hands. At first, I thought you two had broken up, but you didn’t mention anything. And, as far as I knew, you hadn’t moved out. Then, the thought that she might’ve been cheating crossed my mind, but I dismissed it: Kimura didn’t seem secretive that day in the park. So, I was really confused about it.

“Then it hit me: you two have never been dating. Naturally, me and Kyosuke had assumed you were together all these years; even magazines all write about this. It had never crossed my mind that in reality, it could be that you haven’t ever been interested in Kimura as a girl. Because you don’t like girls.”

Her round eyes shoot up at Juzo. There’s a strain of heavy sorrow, a silent question. But Juzo can’t bring himself to object when she’s looking at him with these eyes. The eyes from his nightmare.

“After this realization, I couldn’t get my mind off it. I started to recollect random moments when you looked at Kyosuke, smiled at him, talked to him; you even have his photo framed in your room, don’t you. And then, there’s your song. When I first heard it, I didn’t grasp the true meaning of it. I thought it might’ve just been metaphoric, a stage image of yours. Now it all makes sense.

“I’d never paid attention to all these details, because I thought you and Kyosuke were just best friends, and you've known him longer than I have. Obviously, you respect and admire him – that’s what I thought. But, four days ago, things changed. I learned that I’m carrying Kyosuke’s child. He doesn’t know yet. It was then when I decided to see once and for all whether Enoshima’s rumor was true. I’d set my mind to do what’s just happened. I thought that I could always back up if it appeared that you’d rather... be with me than with him. But that wasn’t necessary. I saw how you looked at him, how you held him; you were so enamored that for a moment it made me feel guilty. But now that I know the truth, I’m telling you that I won’t let anyone else have him. Not even you.”

Juzo moves his numb fingers in his pockets and says the only right thing that comes to his mind:

“If you’re pregnant, why did you drink?”

“I didn’t. I spit everything while no one was looking.”

“When are you gonna tell him about the child?”

Chisa’s forehead is crossed with a painful frown, and Juzo feels the heaviness of his own.

“In a couple of months. He’s the type who’d insist on moving in together and getting married right after he learns about it. But he’s been such a nervous wreck lately and I don’t want to add to the fuss right now.”

“Our tour starts in a couple of months.”

Chisa bites her lip. Her nose wrinkles and Juzo fights the urge to hug her or to pat her back – that’s what a friend would do, but he’s just lost this right.

“I guess this is how Futuremore ends,” he mutters and turns to the door. “Goodbye, Yukizome.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. Ever since I planned this chapter in my head half a year ago (so long!) I've been worried about the reception it would get. Obviously, in a fic this unhappy, everything was fated to end in bits. But is this truly the end? I can't say yet. If you still feel the will to continue reading it, you have my eternal gratitude. Believe me, it's been as hard for me to think over and write, but I always aim for a realistic and profound characterization, so i had to make it this painful.  
> Thank you if you choose to read this monstrosity of a fic to the end. Soon, things will get to resolve. 
> 
> P.S. Munakata's song in this chapter is written by me, based on the famous _Fly me to the Moon _.__


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